


For Her Eyes Only

by sahdah



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild Language, Navy, i mean yeah enemies to lovers might be a strong use of the phrase, unwilling partnered cohorts to willing respectful allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 85,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahdah/pseuds/sahdah
Summary: Soul Eater-- famous movie star uses his influence to worm his way onto the USS Death City a fact that rankles-- Maka Albarn a lieutenant who mans her ship with an iron fist. She is not thrilled to be the assigned nanny to this privileged playboy. If he really wants to learn the ropes of being a sailor, she’ll make sure he learns them. Six weeks should prove long enough to not wreak havoc on her repair ship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the story For His Eyes Only written by Candace Irving. I loved this story ever since I read it in high school many many moons ago.

 

The _USS Death City_ has lost its damn mind, she thinks as she stomps her way into the Captain’s cabin. It isn’t even 0800 and she’s been saddled with playing nursemaid to the newest member of her ship. She arrives at her destination with the precision of a fleet commander which she currently isn’t.

Maka Albarn is a lieutenant.

For most people on the ship, as is evidenced by the commotion on decks as sailors and officers alike dash about completing morning duties, having a movie star aboard is a godsend. This isn’t the case for Maka because she has a million and one things to get done in the next few days before they get underway.

_Death_ _City_ is a nuclear repair ship, not some fuck boi’s vacation yacht. It seems that she’s the only one present who remembers this very important distinction. She knocks on the door of the captain’s cabin with more force than necessary, hoping to death one rational person still remains above the madness.

“Enter!” barks a voice from the other side of the water tight door.

Crossing the raised threshold of the watertight door, Maka stifles her internal scream. Captain Buttataki is wearing his Navy whites, and if the look he’s giving her khaki’s is any indication, she needs to get with the times.

Of all the pompous things, she doesn’t think some Hollywood fly-boy needs to be shown _that_ level of welcome. And yet, as the only lieutenant left in possession of rational thought, she is but a single dissenting voice among the masses.

“Sir, have you reviewed my reports for the next drill?” she asks, but as she pans across his personal desk, she sees that her folder lays pushed off to the side under a slew of other daily reports.

“Not yet, I’ve been--” _Primping._ “--preparing. Speaking of, has he arrived yet?” the man asks. Captain Buttataki looks like a man that would be more comfortable growing coffee beans on some island wearing Birkenstocks and wearing a vest made for fly fishing. Of course meeting a bonafide Hollywood actor has addled something in the man’s brain.

_He_ referring to the thorn that’s yet to be grafted to her side, _Soul Eater._ Enamel grinds loudly in her ears. “He has not.”

Can it be that her captain looks slightly disappointed? Maka resists the urge to vomit out of protest. After all, this is her ship and she’d never disgrace her lovely decks like that. Damn them all for being such fangirls.

As the senior officer in the Damage Control division of the USS Death City, Maka understands that she is toeing very close to the line of insubordination with her attitude, and a part of her doesn’t care. The only thing that keeps her in check is her mama.

“Well--” The tone Captain Buttataki strikes lets her know she needs to reign it in. “Let me know as soon as he does.”

It’s an unofficial dismissal with only one correct response. “Aye, aye Sir,” she says, saluting and showing herself out, heading to the one place she knows she’ll find refuge on this godforsaken madhouse.

//

Maka enters Medical, fuming like a steamship at full speed ahead.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” says Liz Thompson, the resident doctor aboard the floating chunk of iron they call home.

“Can you believe this shit?” Maka hisses, venting the pressure that's been building all morning as she crosses to the Keurig Liz had somehow managed to procure for the medical ward. There’s even a small locking medical cabinet in the wall housing unit where Liz keeps a stash of espresso cups just for Maka. The latter jambs the cup into the machine like it’s personally offended her.

“Easy tiger, you break it you buy it,” Liz says observing the ongoing battle: Maka versus Machine. Then, turning back to the subject at hand, Liz asks.  “What? Aren't you even the teensiest bit curious?”

The good doctor waits until she has Maka's attention before she waggles her perfect eyebrows and mouths, _He's fucking hot!_

Maka's face heats faster than the instant hot water feature and is likely to burst into flames until Liz has mercy and starts laughing hysterically.  “I kid, I kid.” Suddenly, her face goes very serious. “Except I don't. Really Maka, you haven't seen the movie?”

From across the office, Maka flips her the bird.  

“Watch out,” Liz laughs off the dirty gesture.  “He might take you up on that.”

“Liz!” Maka laments. “You're supposed to be a medical professional.” She kicks herself for being such an easy target.  Especially around Liz, she should know better.

For her part Liz looks nonplussed.  “You try explaining safe, consensual sex to pervy sailors while rolling condoms on bananas and see if your head doesn't become a raging dumpster fire, miss.”

Liz had grown up busting balls in Brooklyn; rowdy sailors were a non-issue. They'd become fast friends-- when they'd met at school-- almost instantly.

At least by this time, her espresso has finished brewing, and Maka drinks it piping hot to avoid saying anything.  Which is a mistake, since Liz takes the opportunity to give her a once over. “Didn't captain order the whites?”

Maka scowls, a burnt tongue adding to the bitterness she's having trouble swallowing this morning.  “I don't see _you_ primping,” she shoots back.  

Gel manicured nails tap her mug as she replies.  “I've had a busier morning than most days,” she says simply. “What's your excuse?”

“Don't need one. It's ridiculous that we're even giving Hollywood the golden treatment.” Maka holds the cup close to her nose trying to inhale the caffeine as well as ingest it. “Maybe he'll do me a favor and drive off the pier.”

Laughter fills the air.  “Damn girl, I'm surprised.” Liz gets up, stretching the stiffness from her back.

The DCA tries to stem the little stab of jealousy. Even khakis can't hide her friends full figure, Liz’s long blonde hair in a smart knot at the base of her neck.  She looks away as Liz levels her with a contemplative stare. “Okay, but if you change your mind, there's a supply of condoms in my top drawer.”

Coffee spews from Maka’s lips, and she dashes for the paper towels, thanking the powers that be that she didn’t soil her uniform. “Goddamnit, Liz!” Her finger twitches but the ribbing from earlier is still fresh in her mind.  

“Just saying,” Liz says innocently.

Thankfully for Maka, the public address system interrupts their conversation, “--DCA, your presence is required on the quarterdeck.”

A smile splits Maka's face. “Well,  shoot. Looks like I don't have time for the costume change, after all.”

She feels Liz's knowing gaze follow her out the door.

If he’s honest with himself, and he rarely is, he doesn’t want to be here.

Abandoning ship has crossed his mind a time or two on his way in-- there he goes with the humor again.  A sardonic grin stretches his face except now, sans the bike, he feels semi naked. Then again on land he's in control of his fate, but here? His frustration with the ocean seeps through because he knows she’s a force to be reckoned with.

His motorcycle boots thunk up the gangway, each step a gallows green mile.  It's a past he never thought he'd have to face, not in this lifetime at any rate. At least here, he still has a moment left that belongs to himself, but he feels it slipping away as he reaches the ladder marked Officer’s Brow. The anxiety tightens in his gut click by excruciating click, a G string pulled past tension.

There are only a few steps left before he’ll be shut in for good.

He needs to review his game plan-- Soul _Eater,_ one hit wonder-- overnight acting sensation, twenty-nine, here to win the hearts of all and--

“Face the rear of the ship and snap to attention.” A voice cuts through his train of thought like a scythe through harvest wheat.

Soul stands there indecisive, glancing over the deck. On a quick pass of the deck he spies a lone khaki who stands out like a sore thumb among the sea of Navy whites. His boot hovers before the final rung as he questions, “Say what?” Something about the timbre of the voice makes the command vibrate, a hard strum on the G.

“I  said, face the rear of the ship and snap to attention.” A fierce wavelength. “Now!” A person who clearly isn’t accustomed to repeating orders twice.

His body is responding before he’s even given his conscience consent. Almost like a pianist before the striking of the first chord, his spine straightens. It comes back to him almost instinctively-- almost.

“Good,” says the khaki.

Something about the way it vibrates in his bones makes his face break out in a grin. Playing up his piece, he says, “Would you like me to salute?” He shoots a glance over his shoulder, unable to see who he’s addressing.

“No.” The response is curt.

It’s gone-- that hint of validation he'd thought he'd earned. Well shit, he thinks, not exactly sure why it even matters to him.

“Turn to the officer of the deck-- he has two gold stripes on his shoulder boards-- state your name and request permission to come aboard.” Her voice rings out clear over the deck and he’s hard pressed not to follow the directive. He snaps a perfect right face.

“ _Good!_ ”

His brain hums a very taut G, and he wants to grin, but he snuffs the urge out. “Soul _Eater,_ requesting permission to come aboard, sir.” And he, tries not to cringe, because it’s a weird ass fucking name.

That’s the one thing he’d begged his boss to not jack with on his last job, but he’d been overruled. They’d needed something exotic and some greenhorn shmuck had shouted, “Why not _Eater!_ Like he eats souls or something.” Soul had been very, very displeased. Clearly the kid had had a strong thing for vampires back in the day, but given the assignment, the name had unfortunately stuck.

The man Soul faces, the officer of the deck, has electric blue eyes and a mad grin on his face. “Permission granted.”

For a second, Soul wishes that it hadn’t been.

“Lieutenant Benjamin Starinsky--” Holds a hand out to Soul for a _very_ firm handshake. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Eater.”

This is when the khaki finally steps into his field of vision. “Lieutenant Starinsky will need to search your bags,” she says.

The sound goes out save for the ringing of the G, time slows, his body automatically handing Lt. Starinsky the large duffel he’s packed. Because, in front of him stands a woman created by the gods, and she may not even be _human--_ more like a mermaid with legs. He’s fucked.

Soul takes in the vibrant green of her eyes, the curve of her jaw, the dusting of freckles bridging a sun kissed face. There’s a fullness to her lips that has that G vibrating, hard. If anything, the drab khaki uniform highlights her simple beauty, and he hates himself for noticing how it cinches at her waist as his eyes travel down her front searching for the name tag.

“Hollywood!” She barks, severing his thoughts like a piano lid crashing over the keyboard and his head jerks back to the black lashes framing bright green. The mascara is the only concession to make-up he can obviously see on her flawless face hidden under a red ball cap that proclaims _USS Death City_ , _AD42,_  and it’s damn appealing.

Because for the first time in his life , he understands why he’s never found anyone attractive. This is the first time he’s met a siren. The fact that she could probably hand him his ass right here and right now is having a very interesting effect on his inner sanctum. “Soul Eater,” he says, hanging desperately onto his apathetic mask, made all the more difficult due to the tension in the G pulsing through him as he extends his hand. “But, you can call me Soul.”

A small part of him hopes she doesn’t go for the hand shake. Except, she returns it with equal firmness which proves too much for the sustained note in his head, it pops with a jolt of electricity, like a blown amp, that she must’ve felt as well. Her hand jerks out of his and is blocked from sight when she tucks it behind her waist.

“His bag is clean, Lieutenant Albarn,” says Starinsky, who returns the hefty bag into his distracted gut, hard.  

Noted, Soul thinks, wishing she’d have given him her name herself. Still, his eyes scan the deck, evaluating the security.

“Standard procedure,” Starinsky explains. “All items onboarding or offloading a Naval vessel are subjected to search and seizure.”

He gets it, hadn’t expected anything less. “No worries,” he responds more jovially than he actually feels.

“All electronic devices have to go through IT,” he adds, and the humor is evident in his tone before he even delivers a punchline. “Sorry we don’t have complimentary Wifi--” pronounced ‘wifey’ in a thick LA accent “--this isn’t Princess Cruise.”

“I only brought an MP3 player preloaded with music,” Soul says as he observes the Petty Officer of the Deck exit the guard shack on the quarterdeck. He’s the only officer Soul has seen armed with a pistol at his side, and he makes a mental note to check if it’s loaded or not.  “It’s fine if they check it. I even brought a solar charger to stay off the grid,” he drawls. “So when do I start?” As if he hadn’t since the moment he stepped foot on deck.

“Here. Now.” Lieutenant Albarn is back in his field of vision, the G toned tinnitus back on full blast. “You’ll begin with an overview of the ship, along with a crash course in seamanship, Mr. Eater. Public Relations ordered that in accepting this particular assignment, the Navy should be supportive all the way.”

Translation: someone will be babysitting him to be sure he minds his P’s and Q’s. “Can you translate?” he asks, so he’s clear.

“It means you’ve been assigned a running mate-- think of them as an on board tour guide-- to make sure you make it back to Hollywood with that chiseled face intact.” It’s clear she’s said more than she’d meant to, and his eyebrow arches with the pull of that string as she’s trying to recover the stutter step. “They’ll answer questions and assist in your _characterization_.” The look she gives him dares him to take her insult as anything but.

“Wait,” he says. “You’re telling me I’ve been assigned a sitter.”

There’s a tension in her jaw, a tightening that indicates she isn’t too thrilled about what she’s going to say next. “Not exactly.”

Oh, he thinks it’s exactly like that. “So, who’s the lucky duck?”

There is rapid fire blinking from under that red cap and he’s mesmerized despite himself. “That duck is a person.”  

Soul waits for it. Attuning himself to that plinking G that picks up speed that aligns the planets in his favor this one and only moment in his life. He thinks it even as she says, “Me.”

_Shit, shit, shit._

It isn’t supposed to work that way, he thinks. Every other time he’s wanted the pieces to fall into place they haven’t, so why now?  He feels the strain on the amplification, but it’s clear she’s been roped into this against her will. She hasn’t met his gaze since they shook hands, and he can feel the tension radiating from the way she’s holding herself-- There’s the universe he knows so well. That’s fine, he didn’t come aboard to chase destiny, he has a fucking job to do and he’s going to do it.

A hail comes, “Attention!” The captain is on the deck.

Soul turns to face a craggy man approaching who looks as if he’d be more at home brewing cold press in chacos and Bermuda shorts with extra cargo. “Mr. Eater-- Solomon.” Soul cringes. “Welcome, welcome! I hope the crew has conveyed what an honor it is for _The Death City_ to host you.”

“They have indeed,” he says, shaking the man’s hand. Soul glances at Lieutenant Albarn before grinning a wide, very fake, gracious smile.

She may not be looking him in the eye, but he’s aware of her assessing his every move, and he isn’t sure what to make of it just yet.

“Well good,” says the captain. Soul doesn’t miss the narrowed look he shoots at the woman standing next to them. “You’re here now and that’s what matters. Right? DCA.”

There is a terse jut of a chin and a slight reddening of the cheeks that highlights the ghosting freckles he’d noticed earlier.

The captain’s broad, weather worn, crinkled face turns back to his. “DCA will show you around after you stow your gear. You’ll be dining with me at 1230.” The man isn’t asking. Not that Soul could have refused even if he had, he has a list of people he needs to cross off and this is one of the individuals he has to clear. This is when he notices that the jaw of the Lieutenant is flexing in an off beat frustrated way. Clearly wishing she could be any place else, he thinks.

“Sounds great,” Soul says, when in reality it sounds anything but.

With a flurry of salutes the Captain takes off, leaving Soul with his new running mate who is now crossing quickly to a door. Soul momentarily thinks of the code: _He who falls behind-- is left behind._ He slings his bag over his shoulder in a fluid motion, the leather of his riding jacket creaking with the added weight. The lever on the door slows her down enough for him to catch up.

She’s crossed the lip of the door before his question leaves his lips. “Why DCA?” He’d been thinking Death City Analyst… _damn cute ass..ets_ \-- but that’s pushing it.

Lieutenant Albarn looks at him like he’s a barnacle she’d really like to scrape off her deck. “It’s who I am. I’m the Damage Control Assistant. You’ll see as we go along most of the officers are known by their post.”

His running mate is walking as she’s talking, she fills him in on a few positions and what they do until she rounds a corner and the lights go out, plunging them into complete darkness in the middle of the morning.

Soul’s blood sugar drops when a small hand reaches out, resting  firm pressure on the leather, and he’s glad of the extra protective layer. Had she touched him on his bare arm, lord only knows how that blasted note would have reacted. His hand is still tingling from the contact earlier and in the darkness he recalls the green of her eyes in vivid detail, for once his photographic memory doesn’t fail him...

“Hey, at ease,” she says, her voice steady, and he detects a hint of vanilla hazelnut in her breath. The air is tense and he feels as if he isn’t the only one holding his breath. Although maybe he is. In the eerie silence, his thinks his ears play tricks on him. He’s latched onto the sound of her heart beat, but then thinks it has to be his arm on information overload.

Time bends, and what felt like minutes is more likely only a few seconds. Then, he hears a rumbling and a whirring of electrical machinery coming back to life, the mundane sounds of HVAC drowning out the ghost of the sound his ears are straining to hear. The sensation extends to his eyes, so when the lights flood them in eye searing brightness, he’s momentarily blinded. After he stops blinking his eyes track down to verify her hand is on his arm. The good lieutenant’s eyes follow his line of sight and upon seeing her hand there, she jerks it away as if she’s been scalded by a pan she didn’t realize was hot.

“That’s the ship dropping the load,” she says by way of explanation as she resumes her incredible pace. For someone who barely reaches his shoulders, she has a maddening long gait and he’s falling behind. “The electrical load,” she further clarifies. “While in port we run off shore power. When we’re at sea we run off our own juice.”

“I take it, it’s dangerous to blow a fuse then?” he attempts to joke but is frozen by the completely unamused face she has directed at him over her shoulder.

“Listen up, Hollywood--” she starts and her tone cuts him, but he cuts her off anyway.

“--Actually, it’s Soul.” He’s not sure where that bravado came from. “Soul Eater, but you can call me Soul.” There’s an underlying need he doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to question, because that G is pulsing with the importance of her saying _his_ name.

He’s locked onto her eyes, drawn in by the endlessness of them while the seconds tick by, and he thinks she’s going to honor the implicit request.

“Listen, _Hollywood._ ” She steam rolls him. “I have no idea what you think you’re doing here, but this isn’t some VIP luxury cruise and my ship isn’t your play thing.”

“ _Yours?_ ” The question clearly irritates her, and he’s not mad about it. If she isn’t going to respect his name, then he isn’t going to play nice either. “Oh, I figured it belonged to that guy we just met, with the gold spaghetti bedazzled ball cap.”

The fierce lieutenant does a one eighty at the base of a ladder and he all but manages to stop without colliding into her. The heated look she levels him with makes him acutely aware there’s not enough space between them as he’s branded by her angry stare. “That ball cap is a _cover--_ ” He hears the IQ judgement in her tone “-- That spaghetti is gold leaf--” He grins, noting she couldn’t fault him on the color “-- That _guy_ is a Captain-- Captain Buttataki to be specific. And no, I don’t agree with this half-baked plan to bring on you, a civilian, so you can debase our image and condense _years_ of hard work to a forty minute Thursday night slot. This is _my_ ship, I train the crews that fight her fires, send out the welders to stitch her up, and purify the air when it has become contaminated by the latest toxins. That’s what makes her mine!”

It confirms that she can indeed hand him his ass. As quickly as she’d stopped, she’s turned around and her boots stomp up the ladder, leaving him with little choice but to follow feeling like the worlds biggest asshole. Instinct and anxiety war with his next plan of action.

“Hey! DCA, wait up.”

The good lieutenant is stabbing the lock on a nondescript door that matches various others along the passageway when he finally reaches her. He was told to _use_ the movie star privilege to its end. It’s a position that makes Soul feel extremely uncomfortable given that his intuition has picked up a sustained G that seems to indicate he should trust the woman who has just shoved the door open to the tiny room he presumes he’ll be occupying shortly.

“Here you are, _sir_ , your suite for the duration of your trip. Enjoy!” she says, voice dripping feigned hospitality.

Maybe if her tone didn’t indicate she’d be more happy if he dropped dead he wouldn’t have opened his mouth. “Hey now, I thought you were supposed to show me around,” he says, surprised he could make it almost sound flirtatious. Almost. He feels he’s hit his mark when her face burns bright in her cheeks, reigniting those freckles, and he might have a bigger issue than he’d originally planned for. If she’s going to be this easy to rile up, this might not be much fun. Then again, he could get used to seeing those back-lit freckles.

His guide stomps into the room, arms thrown wide. “Welcome.” She stabs a finger at the bunk. “Here’s your rack. That unit there turns into a desk. You have access to your very own sink. A mirror you can stow your toiletries behind.” A very angry index finger flips the compartment open and it swings out violently only to be stopped by the chain spring before it returns back to its rightful place. “There--” The modular wall system might even shrink before her countenance “-- is your closet.” The last thing she points to is a large black D with a letter Z inscribed within on the porthole. “That is a Dog Zebra and any door, hatch, or porthole bearing that symbol must remain shut from sunset to sunrise while we are underway--”

“Why?” He can tell she’s only gathering up steam so the moment she takes a breath, he cuts her off.

The look she gives him is cold and it confirms what he suspects-- It’s written in the way her shoulders are held too tense. The way she doesn’t quite meet his gaze-- she doesn’t want him here. Not on her ship and definitely not in her personal circle. Fine with him. It’s not like he’s ever been the person sought after by others, he’s Soul-- not his brother. Except, here he can’t afford to be himself. He has to be _Eater._

Psychologically speaking, he can work with anger. If she was indifferent to him then he’d be up a creek, but her frustration at being shackled to him, that he can use. He has to change her mind. Maybe he can use what he’s reading from her to his advantage.

“Okay,” he says, taking a step back and leaning against the modular unit in-- god willing --the best James Dean way he can pull off.

It throws her, his backing out of her bubble. “What?” she asks, and she’s certainly not sure of his angle.

“I get it,” he says, surveying the room. “You don’t want me here.” Her face blanches a little and he can tell he’s on the right track. “Right now, you’re probably thinking of how many strings I had to pull to get my ass on your ship--” Those long blinking lashes are going to be a problem for him if he doesn't get to his point soon. “--That, and now you’ve been saddled with me.” He cringes internally-- wrong choice of words for the visual he’s just gotten. “While, lord only knows how many duties you’ve got on your plate that take priority over showing me around.”

Soul ends this monologue by checking the face of his Montblanc. He doesn’t have much time, maybe only a few minutes.

“What do you want?” she asks.

Of course, she goes for the jugular. Unbidden, his teeth worry at his lip, more from anxiety than trying to play a part, but the way her eyes snap to his mouth sends that note vibrating. Willing his heart rate down, he peels himself from the wall and takes a slow step towards her, and he takes the fact that she doesn’t step away as a positive indication.

“Remove your _cover_ ,” he says, voice lower than he had intended to cover his nerves.

Probably a good precaution because the eyes that look up at him have darkened to an intense Forest hue. “Please.” He isn’t begging, but may as well be.

She’s searching him and it feels too intimate, staring into her eyes like this, but he can’t look away now even when she asks, “Why?”

A part of his brain notes it’s lacking the tone from earlier. He leans just a bit closer, voice still pitched low. “‘Cause I asked nicely.”

Lashes flutter and this time he’s aware of the rise and fall of her chest, he’s standing too close-- Icarus next to the sun. _Don’t do it,_ he begs. _Don’t…_

His eyes track the hands that go to her red ball cap. And he sucks in a breath as ash blonde fringe falls, framing her strong desire to figure out what the hell he’s after, the rest of it braided down her back and tucked away out of site under her collar.

And in this moment, Soul doesn’t even know where he’s going. It’s as if he’s been thrown back to those times he’s ever felt happiness. Alone, on a deserted highway with miles and miles of desert, ash colors punctuated by jeweled colored green, wild and uncontained. A force to be reckoned with. He never imagined the desert could take human form.

Worse than that, the G is tight in his head again and it crackles with electricity when she asks, “Like what you see?”

Fuck him, he’s dead. “Maybe.” The tone screams yes, and even the indifference he tries to inject the word with can’t cover that up. Soul doesn’t miss the way she’s roving her eyes over his frame assessing him, probably assuming he’s the hollywood garbage he’s pretending to be. Hates that he doesn’t care. “You?” He hadn’t meant to ask but feels he’s invested and doesn’t understand why. Thinking around the sustained sound in his head is making processing difficult.

There is a fire in her eyes and it takes everything he has not to back away when she repeats his own word back, and he doesn’t miss the way that blush burns those freckles. He doesn’t question it like he wants to because she’s moving on. “Next question, Mr. Eater.”

Easy. “Your name?”

Those lashes are going to end him. “Maka.”

He wraps his vocal cords around it in his mind a few times before he says it. He likes it-- it fits her well. It’s fierce like the rest of her.

“Well, Maka,” he draws it out, savoring it. “I think I’d better unpack,” he lets it hang. What exactly ‘it’ is, he’s not even sure. “Maybe you can fill me in on the Dog Zebra later.”

Thankfully, she saves them both by cramming her cover back over her hair, her hand sweeping her fringe back in the process as he catches a hint of jasmine in the air-- and it’s all lieutenant from there. “You’ve got 20 minutes,” she says, before shutting the door to his stateroom.

Only after she’s gone does Soul let out the pressurized air he’s been de-oxygenating the past few seconds. Twenty minutes doesn’t give him much time. Quickly, he steps over to the desk she pointed out, letting the writing surface down to locate the personal safe each stateroom has. He opens it, pulling out the slip of instructions to set the new code. Side stepping to the rack, he sits to remove his motorcycle boots. His duffel may have been clear, but he sure as hell hadn’t been.

Removing his gear from his boots and concealing it in the safe, Soul spins the dial and sets it back on his home number, resetting his focus on the mission ahead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Title: 2**

**Warnings: drugs, violence, language**

  
  


Maka manages to shut the door to her state room, rips off her cover, and takes a single breath before her body goes into shock. Fingers freezing, skin covered in goosebumps as she starts to shake uncontrollably, even though her stateroom is warm.

 

What in death was she thinking baiting him like that,  _ Like what you see?  _  The way he’d said ‘Maybe’, no one-- scratch that-- no  _ man _ has ever looked at her like that.

 

She desperately tries to scrub her blush away with her shaking hands. Goddamnit, Liz had said he was hot-- not on fire. And maybe he isn’t, maybe it’s a one off reaction to a situation she had been criticizing since the start. Maybe this is her comeuppance. Except, she remembers his eyes, his very warm and intense eyes. She’d mistaken them for being dark brown but in actuality they border on red. The color of cardinals in winter or ripe strawberries in spring or like the fiery sunsets she loves when she’s out on the seas.

 

Just how in seven hells is she going to work with him for the next six weeks? She’d barely survived those last few minutes and that was only because of her  _ mama. _

 

_ You let him get to you, young lady. How are they going to take you seriously if this is how you behave? _

 

Maka’s face cools a little with that admonishment. Mama’s right; she had spent all of an hour in the presence of Hollywood-- and what? --is now salivating like the masses of rabid fans he’s attracted-- that’s not who she is. 

 

_ You can’t let them get to you. Don’t show them the woman, they’ll walk right over that. _

 

She’s spent so long being the position that she isn’t sure she knows how to be human anymore.

 

Her head thunks on the steel of the door as she tries to cool her thoughts. Is this the precursor that leads to people jumping into bed with complete strangers? Maka’s eyes screw shut as she groans. It’s never been something she’d considered before now. Sure she knows sex happens, biologically speaking, but has always harbored the judgement that movies play it up  _ way  _ past realistic standards. 

 

To hear Liz talk about it (there are some embellishments but not many) actually makes Maka feel like perhaps the issue is her own lack of physical appeal. Not many men are interested in women who have jiu jitsu titles, can out run them, and are self sufficient, autonomous members of society. Instead of prompting mutual respect, it ends up feeding some inferiority complex, and they say nasty things to cover their own insecurities. Maka wizened up to that long ago and is of the mind set: Fuck that, no thank you.

 

But, to be fair, body image aside, she knows Liz has dealt with gross shit as well. Her friend’s last boyfriend had been of the opinion that Liz would be better suited to help the Navy by staying at home and popping out a few babies while the men took care of things. Liz broke his heart as well as his nose, for good measure. 

 

Basically, the way Maka sees it, they're damned if they do, and damned because they don’t. So why bother dating? She’s better off alone. 

 

One thing that sticks out to Maka though, as she tries not to melt the bulkhead with her heated glare, is how accurately he’d seen through her, much to her annoyance. He went straight to the point. Soul Eater is  _ supposed _ to be a Hollywood bimbo, not some guy with a smart head on his...broad leather clad shoulders--  _ damnit _ . It’s the jacket that makes him look broad. It’ll be easier once he’s in uniform, she thinks, irritated.

 

That’s it, has to be. He’s new and seeing him in what can only be designer jeans and worn leather boots with a t-shirt that seems to be grafted to his tight stomach-- The uniform will erase all that, she’s sure of it. It  _ has  _ to--

 

Maka squeaks in terror as the door behind her shamed head comes to life with a series of thumping knocks that immediately erase all knowledge of her next door neighbor-- except what if it’s him?! She looks down to check the chunky face of her sports watch-- she still has fifteen minutes!

 

“Maka, open up! Tell me everything-- is he as--” She’d recognize that voice anywhere but now she’s mad. She opens the door and drags a very shocked, very surprised Liz into her stateroom. “Hey-- wha-- owww!”

 

“Zip it!” Maka hisses, angrily stabbing a finger towards the bulkhead on her right, whispering, “He’s just next door.”   

 

Liz isn’t deterred mouthing,  _ OH MY GOD! _ In various levels of school girl hype. “Why didn’t you say you were stashing him in the stateroom next to yours?!”

 

The palm of Maka’s hand tries to erase her face and the rest of herself off the current plane of existence. 

 

“Shit,” Liz says, uncharacteristically shamed even if her face doesn’t betray her the way Maka’s does. “You’re right--” accurately interpreting her friends face “-- I was writing up a report when you were telling me. Right, right, won’t forget. Geez if this was prison I feel like you’d have shanked me.”

 

Maka laughs despite the absurdity. “Whatever.” She tries to remain salty but Liz is a balm to her frayed nerves.

 

“Sooooo?” the blonde doctor asks, and Maka’s relief flies out the porthole. “What’s he like? Is he sexy as hell in person?” The last question is a clear indicator that Liz had been pulling her leg earlier.

 

“You!” It’s an accusation punctuated by an angry finger that Liz easily brushes away with little sympathy. 

 

“What? You’re an easy target, sorry,” Liz says. “I mean, I saw the movie and I get why he has fans, but he’s not, like, my type.” 

 

And Maka softens a little. Yeah, Liz has a type. More like the tall, dark, and mysterious type with extra points if they’re a closeted nerd. A type that had best not plan on making her pop out any babies before Liz decides to even wonder if she'll ever be ready. Liz had been her younger sister’s guardian for four years. She had legally emancipated herself at the age of sixteen, joined the Navy at seventeen, and won custody of her sister at eighteen. Had refused to date until Patty graduated from city college only four years ago. Actually, they’d finished about the same time. She’s an inspiration to Maka, a survivor, but even then, it’s more than that. Liz has never lost her relish for life even when faced with the most dire of circumstances. No wonder blood isn't a big deal to the tall blonde.

 

“Maka?” she asks, interrupting Maka’s train of thought.

 

“Mmm?” 

 

“You do think he’s hot, yeah?” 

 

“Yeah…” she responds cautiously, objectively speaking.  _ Extremely. _

 

“Good!” Liz says, resembling a mad scientist rubbing her hands together, a tad too excited for Maka’s comfort.

 

“Don’t choke on that canary--” 

 

The public address system goes off with the voice of Petty Officer Hepburn announcing “Chow!”

 

Maka looks down at her at her watch. “Shit, gotta go.”

 

Frantically, Liz waves her on. “Go, go, don’t let me keep you. Also, you know I’ve got you covered-- if you catch my drift!”

 

Maka pales but uses her cover to hide her face. “I hate you.”

 

“You love me!” Liz sing songs after her, but mercifully exits the passageway before Maka knocks on the door to the stateroom next to hers. 

 

* * *

  
  


The next day, Maka sits in her office facing Petty Officer Sizemore, working to keep herself together through the stress.

 

“C’mon DCA, just one more chance,” the young sailor pleads. 

 

At her desk feeling the pain of a migraine beginning and the tension pooling between her shoulder blades, Maka listens without objection. The part of her position she dislikes the most is when the sailors don’t do as they’re told, when she has to make the reports that hurt people. 

 

“Please, I’m beggin’ here.” He is,  and she can see how much it's costing him. 

 

She tries to keep her breathing even as she looks Clay in the eyes and delivers the news he’s been dreading. “I’m sorry, Sizemore. You’re going to Captain’s mast on Monday.”

 

“No,  _ no _ . I’ll lose a stripe for sure.” She feels the whine in his tone rather than hears it. “There’s got to be another way.”

 

She knows that, knows it better than most. She’s tried, tried to look the other way, tried to give direction without penalization. This isn’t what she wants for this sailor, but he’s been failing to get the point. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you missed General Quarters.” He’s on the verge of tears and each hitch of his voice slices her.

 

“DCA, I need the money-- Mom’s still in the hospital,” he says, voice shaking.

 

She knows. His mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and he’s a part of the reason her medical bills are getting paid. Maka understands this. And yet--  _ and yet. _ His behavior is becoming increasingly more erratic. If anything, she’s thinking of him-- of his mother. “My decision is final, Sizemore. Save your arguments for the Captain.” 

 

It’s as if she’s physically slapped him. His face turns cold, etched with the resentment he clearly feels. “What’s the point? Everyone aboard the ship knows he’ll take your recommendation.” 

 

Maka doesn’t deny it. She does, however, hand him a slip of paper that contains the contact information for Navy relief. “Look, there’s not much else to say. Here’s a number-- they’ll assist with the money if you need it.”

 

Clay stares at the slip as the seconds tick by. It is insult on top of the injury she’s caused. As the tension draws tighter, she’s sure he’s going to reject it, but then his hand comes up and stuffs the offending slip of paper into his working blues. “Thanks a lot,  _ ma’am. _ ” The chair squeals as he stands up abruptly.

 

It isn’t until he’s turned out of her office door that she takes a shaky breath of relief. Maka hates confrontation. Leans into the discomfort of it for sure, given that she tries-- tries-- to live her life authentically, but today it proves difficult to handle. Rubbing at her temples, she finally gives up and, adjusting the bill of her cover so it won't his the desk, lowers her head onto her arms.

 

* * *

  
  


Time is ticking and he isn’t making as much headway with Lieutenant Albarn as he needs to be. Of course, he is following his feet back to her; that sound that seems to be attuned to her like a steady beacon he doesn’t quite understand guides him. Except, there’s a distortion, one he doesn’t notice until it’s too late. 

 

Someone is in her office, and that someone is laying it all out there. Even Soul feels uncomfortable with the level of groveling that is happening and he wishes he were anywhere but here. If he walks by the open door, they’re going to know he’s here, so he slows as much as he can while trying not to listen and failing only because he can tell the conversation is costing the good lieutenant some effort. 

 

He hears the cue just in time to make it look like he’s only just arrived at the door. The young seaman jambing his cover over blonde hair looks mutinous, and ignores him as he shoulders his way past to get to the ladder at the end of the passageway. 

 

Soul does the offended song and dance number, looking after the guy like he can’t believe what just happened, in case anyone is watching. 

 

The door is open and she’s inside with her head on her arms, and he’s struck with how vulnerable she looks. This is not going to go smoothly any way he slices it. “Hey,” he says softly, by way of announcing his presence. 

 

It would’ve been comical if he didn’t understand the physical pain of how it feels when someone catches you in such a moment. Startling her wasn’t his intention. All he can do is watch her body unfold, bolting upright with the stress that stitches her spine into rigid place. Her hand adjusts her cover to text book perfection. Soul was going to say something witty or maybe even lie better but, what he says is, “You look like you had a rough meeting.” 

 

Bright green eyes zero in on his. “Excuse me?” she asks. Then he feels her eyes taking all of him in. The way they come to rest on the hat he was handed with his working blues leaves his skin crawling and he becomes extremely self conscious under her appraising gaze. 

 

“Uh-- I, ran into a guy on my way in,” he says, hoping the truth gets him father than outright lying. 

 

Hates that he notices how her jaw clicks shut with that tension pulsing in her cheek as her eyes dart back up to the red cover with USS Death City stitched on it before they flit back to the open door. “I should have closed that.” It’s a personal admonishment laced with frustration that isn’t exactly deserved. He’s the one at fault here. 

 

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry, I should’ve turned around when I heard voices. Should’ve known better.” Really, he should have.

 

Her eyebrows knit into a frown. “It’s not like you could have known,” she says. Not to defend him, but to remind him that he really  _ shouldn’t  _ know. 

 

Something about the situation fuels his frustrations. What is it with Navy officers prioritizing processes over interpersonal connection? Is it really that hard to get over a guy who missed one drill? He asks a different burning question. “Are you scared that if you empathize with anyone, they’re going to think you’re soft and walk all over you?” 

 

Shooting darts at a board blindly means you hit the target every now and then. It’s evident by the way she shoots up, like a jet launched from the deck of a carrier, that he’s hit a nerve. Nothing could have prepared him for such a reserve of pent up frustration to be released.

 

She comes around her desk at full steam ahead. “Did the Captain give you command to run my division?” she asks, her color rising. “I suggest you stay out of it.”

 

Now defensive, he’s not thinking of the other guy when he asks, “Couldn’t you’ve cut him any slack?” Hindsight is 20/20. The second the words leave his lips, he regrets them. Knows he shouldn’t have voiced that question. Whatever her conversation had been about, it  _ hadn’t _ been about him-- he’s just questioned her authority, and it doesn’t sit well with her. Clearly.

 

“Not that it’s any of your business, Hollywood, but that sailor has issues he isn’t facing,” she says. 

 

He’s screwed up, regrets losing his cool. Knows it isn’t personal, but now that she’s giving him the explanation he forced her into-- it  _ feels  _ personal, fuck. 

 

“He’s disassociating from his mother’s diagnosis and burying it with alcohol. That drill he missed-- it took two sailors and a Chief to pull him out of a vomit filled rack. Had that been the real thing, lives would have been lost.”

 

Lives she’s responsible for, he reads it loud and clear in the set of her face. God he’s an asshole. He’s let his past get in the way and it would have been a non-issue if he wasn’t still frustrated about lunch with the Captain yesterday.

 

Some running-mate she’s turning out to be. 

 

The minute they’d stepped foot into the Captain’s cabin for lunch, Lieutenant Albarn ditched him to sit with Lieutenant Starinsky, who’d looked rather smug about the whole thing. Not that Soul engages much with guys trying to pull pissing contests he doesn’t give two shits about. Nine times out of ten, ignoring their bullshit is all it takes for the guys to back off. But it became painfully clear as lunch went on, that Starinsky was born that tenth guy.  

 

After lunch, he’d been taken on an extensive tour of the ship-- sans the areas he actually needed to see. Then Lieutenant Albarn had graciously dumped him on her Chief, Mifune. The man was quiet but, as it turned out, had actually done a movie or two as a swordsman extra. 

 

The Chief had asked about the director Soul worked for on his previous movie. Not wanting to draw attention to the name, Soul played dumb, and lucky for him, they’d arrived at the Chief’s Mess-- where a group was waiting to ask the tiresome questions of which actresses Soul had worked with. It wasn’t long before they started filling in the breaks with their own experiences of celebrity encounters. They all assured him this was the coolest one they’d had. It’s not as if Soul cared. His frustration came with the annoyance of being dumped into these social situations. And although the group chatted long into that first night, it became fast apparent to Soul that it isn’t the type of group to gossip about the information he needs to know. 

 

In short, his first day aboard this hunk of iron yielded  _ zero  _ insight into the job he’s actually here to perform. 

 

And now he’s blown it. He can’t take back the past two minutes but he can apologize like a man. “Maka--”

 

“DCA?” A young sailor shouts, cutting him off as she comes up to hand Maka a slip of paper. Soul breaks first, backing away from Maka’s desk to the open workstation she’d assigned to him. “Ma’am, the Command Duty Officer can’t find the draft report--” Soul looks away from the sailor’s curious face “ _ \--again _ ,” they finish.

 

Maka takes the paper and looks up as she signs her name to the bottom of the sheet. “I take it Lieutenant Bale is Command Duty Officer today?”

 

_ Bale? _ Soul’s ears twitch as the name resonates. The Bale he’s here to investigate? Soul forces himself to slump deeper in his chair, doing his level best to look the picture perfect definition of apathetic-- it comes naturally. 

 

The small, dark haired sailor giggles nervously, nodding her head in confirmation, clear admiration of the officer she’s speaking with written on her face. 

 

“Please tell Lieutenant Bale I said the next time he loses the report, his first plan of action is to look overboard. If it’s still floating, we’re good.” 

 

“Yes’am,” she squeaks before she turns to Soul, nervously holding a magazine and a sharpie. “Um, would you mind?” 

 

His own face stares up at him from the cover next to a purple haired woman draped suggestively over him-- He sees Maka’s eyes land on the magazine and whatever sound she just made feels like a gut punch-- and he dies a little inside.  _ Right. _ He scrawls his name next to his face and hands it back to the blushing sailor he’d initially mistook for a cabin boy. “Here you go.”

 

“Thanks!” She smiles brightly as she exits the office. Meanwhile, Soul is already thinking of how to repair the damage he’s done and how to circle the conversation back to the draft report and Lieutenant Bale. 

 

When he turns to her, Maka’s face is still red, and she’s quickly reorganizing her desk, stacking her papers neatly before locking them into her file. It’s now or never, he thinks.

 

“Maka, can we talk?”

 

Her back goes ramrod straight. That’s right, it’s only the third time he’s addressed her with her given name, and maybe it’s too intimate.

 

“Nooo can do, Hollywood. I have a meeting,” she says. Well okay, he thinks, not sure what he’s supposed to do with that. 

 

That nickname is starting to wear on him, especially as it’s become clear she’s the only one using it, the only one refusing to address him by his name. Okay-- whatever. Soul rounds the desk; it’d be preferable to apologize in the privacy of her office, but if she insists, he can do it on the way. “Ready when you are,” he says.

 

“Not this time, sorry,” she says with a smile, clearly relieved to have an escape. “You don’t have the clearance.”

 

 _Clearance?!_ Damnit, he thinks, frustrated. And that smile-- she’s not sorry at all. There’s something else he can’t pinpoint.

 

“Actually, Hollywood, I’ve set aside a character building experience for you today.” 

 

Oh this can’t be good. She looks like she’s enjoying herself a little too much. “What sort of character building?” he asks, curious to know what she has up her sleeve. “And, why do I get a bad feeling about this?” He hopes the bravado is more charismatic than it feels. 

 

He’s rewarded with a genuine smile and he understands it’s about to go down.

 

“You’ll see. Petty Officer Ford will fill you in on the details when he gets here,” she says as she exits her office. 

 

He hears her holler back something about not forgetting his toothbrush and he shakes his head thinking, Oh it’s on, _ Lieutenant.  _

 

* * *

 

The oxygen mask over her face is uncomfortable. Maka uses her forearm to adjust it in the confined space of the near empty lube oil tank, because breathing canned air is her  _ favorite _ . Carefully, she brings up a hydrocarbon tube from her gear and cracks both ends off. It’s her last one. 

 

Working slowly, Maka shoves it into the handheld bellows, forcing the air through the thin glass. She grabs her flashlight from where it’s stowed safely under her armpit and checks to see if the air is toxic. It isn’t-- it’s breathable.

 

Maka works her way back to the entrance hatch one careful, squishy footstep at a time. At the hatch she gives her tether three good yanks. Down come Chief Mifune’s arms to accept her test gear. They disappear from view before reappearing to help Maka out of the confined space. 

 

When she’s clear of the tank, she rips off her facemask, gulping down sweet, stale ship air. Maka accepts the SSSP form from Mifune and signs off on the site specific safety plan, noting her findings.  “I  _ hate  _ canned air,” she says, by way of conversation.

 

Mifune, a man of few words, nods solemnly. “How is it?” he asks.

 

“Oh it’s fine-- breathable, at any rate,” she says, handing him the slim tubes. “Tell Giriko to drain the tank better next time.”

 

Chief Mifune grins. “I’ll say.” He draws her attention to the once white tyvek disposable suit now covered in thick yellow streaks of oil from her shoulders down to her booties. “You look like you fought aliens, and lost.” 

 

Mifune loves Sigourney Weaver. It’s endearing. 

 

“Gross,” Maka says. Speaking of aliens on ships, “How’s our ward?” she asks. 

 

“Still alive, last time I checked.” Maka’s peeled off the hood so she can replace the cover she left on the air compressor. “Alive and kicking,” Mifune says.

 

“So then, squalling like a baby?” Maka asks hesitantly, peeling off the rest of the suit to reveal her overalls.

 

The older man shakes his head. “Not at all, he’s almost done, actually.”

 

“Bullshit,” slips out but Mifune doesn’t care. ‘Almost done’ is not a phrase she was expecting to hear. “You’re kidding?” She doesn’t wait for a response as she rounds the electricians desk heading for the ladder. “This, I’ve got to see.”

 

Okay, to be fair, she knew she was pushing the limits with her stunt. All afternoon she’s kept an ear to the public address system ready for Captain Buttataki to hand her her ass for her stupid plan, but the call never came.  

 

That’s something that bugs Maka on her way to the mid-ship’s passageway she had sequestered her ward to. He  _ hasn’t  _ thrown a tantrum. Isn’t that the Hollywood Playboy MO? Poor entitled rich boys having things handed to them only to complaining when they aren’t... 

 

Maka rounds the corner and stops, dead in the water. 

 

The forty feet of spit polished gleaming deck is a slap to the face she honestly hadn’t anticipated. Anarchy, maybe. But not this! Luxury yacht clean. This pristine glow, the fresh smell of Enrique's Fabuloso, and there at the far end of the passageway next to the custodial cart complete with bucket, mop, and broom, is Soul Eater. He’s too busy polishing the brass bell at the opening to mid-ships brow to even notice she’s there.

 

In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge the steady stream of people that seem to be walking by just to gawk. It isn’t until she clears her throat that he looks up. She tries to ignore the slap of the rag on that solid shoulder.  With a crooked grin that makes her notice his dimpled chin, he tips his ball cap, hailing to her. “Whatcha think, DCA? ‘m I a sailor, yet?”

 

Oh she’s a jerk-- worse even. Her gut twists with guilt. She had purposely given him the worst passageway in all the ship. The one where all roads converge-- it connects to the post office, the mess halls, engineering, and berthing. In fact, all nine hundred sixty four souls onboard have to pass through here on a daily basis.      

 

She’s speechless, and yet she owes him some praise. With a grin she extends her hand. “Not bad, Hollywood. I’m-- impressed.” It isn’t until his hand is firmly in hers that she realizes her mistake-- that shock from yesterday she figured was a one off resonates from her fingertips and exits through her toes, igniting everything in between. 

 

There’s a growing list in her mind concerning one Soul Eater. Don’t look at his smile. Don’t stare into his eyes. Don’t categorize his hair color-- honestly, it does sort of look like starlight-- _ NO! _ And for mercy’s sake, she adds, don’t  _ touch _ him! 

 

“So,” she says, wildly searching for the exit. “Did you work for commercial cleaners to pay for acting classes?” It’s too hot in the passageway.

 

“Nah,” he says, as she studiously ignores his grin, instead focusing her attention on an earlobe, which also isn’t safe. “I was...a crew member, on a luxury yacht, you could say,” he explains a tad awkwardly. 

 

His hand comes up, and it looks too sculpted for comfort. “Hey,” he says, using the same hand to point to somewhere just above and behind her. Maka turns to see what he’s indicating but his deep chuckle rumbles in her belly and she looks back at him, eyes squinting. “No, no, hold still,” he directs her. “Ah, may I?” he asks, indicating what, exactly, Maka isn’t sure, but shrugs yes to, skeptically. 

 

“You’ve got--” His finger sears her forehead as he holds his hand out for her inspection. Lube oil has transferred to his finger. He’s grinning as he wipes it away on the rag that’s on his shoulder. “What is that?”

 

“Lube,” Maka responds, automatic, then fumbles with her thoughts and gets a dark raised eyebrow that looks so good with his pale locks. “Oil! Lube  _ oil-- _ ”  _ Pervert! _ She rants in her head, although she’s not sure if she’s referring to him or herself. 

 

He laughs. “Looks like you could use a good scrubbing yourself--” he cuts himself off, and Maka notices the tan on his ears deepening. 

 

But it doesn’t save her from where her mind just went. She’s turning into Liz’s dumpster fire-- damn that woman and her influence! Lord, who is she kidding, she knows deep down she’s one of those dirty sailors Liz had referred to the other day. Only, she keeps it to the privacy of her thoughts and the few books she has stowed in her safe. 

 

“So, why are you soaking in it?” he asks, but the way his eyes burn into hers, she thinks she can’t be the only one thinking things she shouldn’t be. Still, though, she latches onto the life line.    

“It wasn’t my intent to baste in it,” she says, trying to steady her breathing, and definitely not noticing him trying to do the same. “I had to clear a lube oil tank for access.” To his questioning glance, she explains further. “I had to test the air quality, so the tank can be entered and cleaned.”

 

“You?” he asks, and she nods, watching as his face screws up in search of a thought. “Didn’t you used to use canaries for that?” 

 

Poor canaries, Maka thinks back to the morbid mining practice that used birds as an air quality control. “We do. You’re looking at it-- me.” But not many people know facts like that. She thinks back to his precise movement on the quarter deck when he came aboard yesterday. “You really do your research, don’t you?” She’s impressed, truly.

 

Only there’s a flicker of something she can’t discern on his face. Had she made him uncomfortable by complimenting him? He goes from light hearted flirt to almost apathetic in the way he shrugs his shoulders and replies with. “I try.”

 

She shouldn’t notice but the tan on his neck has also deepended. Has she honestly made him that uncomfortable? Didn’t men eat up compliments like that? She’s not sure anymore, but he looks embarrassed. Surely, it would have stroked his ego.  _ Oh lord, _ she makes a note to clean up her mental language around him. 

 

“Look, Hollywood--”

 

“What’s up, Soul! You finish cleaning for DC’s Wicked Stepmother?” 

 

Maka’s jaw grinds shut and she turns sharply to see her worst nightmare sauntering up like he’s the captain of the ship. Bale.

 

“Oh-ho, DC _ A _ . You’re so short, I looked right over you.” 

 

If she wouldn’t get court martialed her boot would be up this guys face. “Bale.” Maka glares at him, daring him to say anything else.

 

It’s as if she isn’t even there as the guy turns his grin to Soul. “Anyway, you up for a couple of beers after knock-off, man?”

 

Maka screeches, “What?” without even thinking. She turns to face Soul stiffly, completely at a loss that he could even take up with the likes of Noah Bale, because the man is garbage. But her charge isn’t looking her in the face, in fact, there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t sit right with her when he shrugs and says, “Sure.”

 

There’s a ringing in her ears like static on the radio and she almost misses him say, “Just as soon as boss lady gives the word.” 

 

Maka notices his eyes, intense and red, a color that mirrors her anger. She’s about to give him a piece of her mind when Noah starts sniffing the air, overly dramatic. 

 

“God, what is that nasty stench?” He waits until he has her attention. “Oh, my bad, it’s  _ parfum de DCA _ .”

 

If Maka wasn’t already seeing red she might have noticed the stranglehold Eater has on the broom. She takes a deliberate step closer to the crass Lieutenant. “What’s that, Noah? Oh yeah, I forget you wouldn’t want to break a nail doing actual work.” She’s pushed into his comfort zone now. “Take a good whiff, so you can pretend like you actually did something today.” 

 

Maka turns sharply on her boot, leaving both men behind. 

 

//

 

Soul’s heart is racing a little in his chest as he watches Lieutenant Albarn disappear from view. Fuck, just as he’s started to gain a little progress with her this ass has to show up and burn it to the ground. He doesn’t want to spend any time in the man’s presence, but it’s vital to the work he’s actually here to do. Fuck him-- fuck his life. But watching her take no shit from Bale was worth it, and he has to put a lid on that or it’s going to land him in a different heap of trouble. 

 

Next to him, Noah is looking offended. Soul must remember he has an audience at all time, because Bale turns light brown eyes that are curiously flat back to him. “Shit, did I say Wicked Stepmother?” Soul doesn’t like the twist to his mouth and braces. “I meant, fucking bitch.”

 

If his fingers were steel, Soul is sure he’d be denting the smooth wood of the mop handle he’s still holding. He isn’t so certain he hasn’t already. He’s been around assholes like this. Apathy is his game, though; he’ll deal with his frustration later. “So, you guys have a healthy relationship,” he says. “Mutual contempt?” The laugh is tense. 

 

But lucky for him Bale chuckles. “Contempt? Yeah, you could say that. You driving or riding?”

 

“I’ll drive, unless you want to ride bitch?” he says, actually grinning. 

 

Noah’s face screws up until he gets it. “Oh-- whatcha got?” 

 

“Ducati Scrambler,” Soul says, unimpressed; he’d rather ride his Harley. It was thought, by Kilik who convinced their boss, that the Harley didn’t have that  _ je ne se douche-bro _ look Hollywood playboys are known for. 

 

Noah looks at him curiously, “Full throttle edition?” 

 

“Yeah,” Soul concedes. At least the bike sounds good. He’d changed out the stock exhaust for an MGP. “Anyway, gonna get out of these overalls-- see you there.”

 

“Sounds good,” the guy says as he walks away.

 

Maybe motorcycles will be the way in, Soul thinks as he makes his way back to return the cart and heads for his stateroom. That small, selfish inner black room filled with that G chord wishes it were Maka he’s meeting instead. 

 

Except, she isn’t part of the job-- Noah  _ is _ . He’ll have those beers, maybe trade mechanic stats, and hope to God that ass gets into name dropping and bragging. ‘Cause as much as he respects Maka, his gut doesn’t trust that she’ll take him where he needs to go-- at least not as easily as Noah can. 

 

Soul will sit there and listen, pretend to be the guys’ new best friend. Let him brag about it all over San Diego for all he cares. And Soul will smile and wave while he does it. Because from experience, he knows he’ll get a whole hell of a lot further with Noah as Soul Eater, the actor, than he ever will as Soul Evans, the undercover agent. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I seriously couldn’t do this without the eyes and grammar skills of my beta baes SSotS.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: drugs, language, violence. It's rated M.

****  
  


It’s Thursday night which means the Officer’s Club is pretty low key. Maka’s straw wrapper has long since been sacrificed to restless fingers. Honestly, she feels so stupid for letting Noah get to her.  Liz is sipping on her margarita, nonchalant listening.

 

A wordless, closed mouth, shriek fills their booth. “He’s such an-- ugh! You should have been there--” Maka isn’t even making sense, she’s so angry. And perhaps it’s the fact she’s been gnawing on this perpetual bone of annoyance that brings her bane into existence. 

 

“Speak of the devil--” Liz’s periwinkle blue eyes lock onto the jingling of the door “--and he shall appear. Oh man, this can’t be good.”

 

“Nope, sure isn’t,” Maka says. Because of the conversation from the passageway a few hours ago, she knows Noah won’t be alone. The bell rings again and she braces as her gut confirms what she doesn’t want to acknowledge as Soul walks in a beat later. 

 

“Hey-oh! At least it’s not all bad,” Liz whistles cheerfully, giving Maka the ‘look Christmas came early’ eyes. “Take me out back and bury me, my life is complete.”

 

“Are you serious?” Maka asks. Liz has this ability to crack jokes and diffuse situations. It’s an innate skill she desperately wishes she had at times-- like now, for instance. “Wipe your chin, you, uh, got some drool there.”

 

Her friend looks at her with a wide grin. “Ahh, you almost had it. You have to get the conviction, Maka.” 

 

_ Noted, _ Maka thinks sourly. But Liz is way ahead of her. “Look, you’re just better at keeping your mouth closed when you drool.”

Heat instantly floods her face. It’s true, she hadn’t missed the return of the black motorcycle boots, the sinful way his jeans are molded to his ass, or the fact that his short sleeved grey Henle has a few buttons popped open, revealing a marble sculpted collar bone as he and Noah take up stools at the bar. It’s for the best that he’s facing away from her. From here though, the muscles in his back are visible. Honestly, what a jerk for parading that-- that hotness-- in such a waste of a location. Apart from Liz and herself, the majority of the Club patrons are good ol’ boy retirees or the handful of officer’s from the docked ships. 

 

“Soooo, none of this--” A manicured hand waves at all of Maka. “The fact that you lie to yourself never came up during your background check for security clearance?” Liz is positively beaming, lips curled around her margarita straw slurping at Maka’s expense.

 

Maybe Maka should move onto shredding napkins next. Her finger is itching to flip Liz off but since her friend has the loudest belly laugh, it will surely draw even more attention to them. For now, Maka sits fuming while she does her best to avoid observing Soul. 

 

_ Soul, _ she wraps her mind around it thoughtfully. What a name? For such a character. 

 

Curiosity burns her, what can he possibly be discussing with Bale? If she knew any better she’d say he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself-- so why bother coming to a bar with a person he can’t stand?

 

“Maybe he’s getting pointers on how to be a better sailor,” Liz offers, when Maka voices her skepticism.

 

It’s another straw on her back. “From Noah?” she fumes. 

 

“What if he’s the only person who’s offered?” If Liz’s humor is an admirable quality, the fact that her intuition is spot on makes Maka’s heart quail from the gentle reprimand. The tall blonde sits back waiting, because she knows Maka knows it’s a fair question. 

 

From across the way, a throaty laugh tingles in her ears, even if something about it sounds less than genuine, almost flat. The past few times she’s looked over, Maka swears that his hands haven’t moved and they look tense, poised as if waiting for some signal while the condensation of the bottle finds other paths around those sculpted fingers to the table top. 

 

Anyway, she thinks trying to shake her observation, even if Liz is right, she doesn’t have the time to take on a greenhorn. There are the drills to plan, a mountain of reports, and trainings that are sitting on her desk. Plus there’s the fact that Maka never asked for any of this. And maybe those are excuses she’s devised to protect herself, because there’s a small, honest part of her that fears being alone with him. Never before in her life has she been so attuned to an individual and it scares her. What if she loses control and just--

 

“--lived a little.” Liz’s words reach Maka through her mental haze.

 

“Huh?” 

 

The doctor’s face goes sullen as she realizes Maka hasn’t heard a thing she’s said. “I was saying, what’s the harm in you getting out there. If you lived a little?” 

 

In the booth, Maka’s head thunks on the back of the vinyl. She has no idea, because she’s never really tried.

 

* * *

  
  


Soul is going over the many ways he wishes he were spending his evening. Being trapped here listening to Bale blow it out his ass for the past few minutes isn’t high on the list, but it’s a necessary evil. His means to an end. An end he hopes comes swiftly. The only high note is, at least, he isn’t blackening  _ her _ night with his unwanted presence. 

 

“Well fuck a nut, who let the riffraff in?” 

 

And there it is-- Soul’s been waiting, known it was coming. 

 

He knows exactly who this dick hole is referring to. And maybe it’s a good sign it’s taken Bale so long to get there-- Soul, on the other hand, felt her presence before his hand ever pushed the door open. 

 

_ Maka. _

 

It took one scan as he entered-- not even that-- to lock in on her position. She’s now safely a look over his left shoulder-- fifteen feet behind him. Because he purposely sat with her in his blindspot so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare. There’s another woman in the booth with her, he hasn’t met her yet, but she’d immediately flashed a big smile at him when he first entered. He has no idea what that means, because it can’t mean what that damned G humming in his head hopes it does.

 

“Officer  _ is _ in the name of the place-- she is one,” he says, unwilling to let his bar mate’s slur go unaddressed.

 

“Barely,” the guy scoffs. 

 

_ Hilarious.  _ “What’s with you man? Mommy issues--” Soul shouldn’t prod, but he’s fucking annoyed. “You got beef against gorgeous women?”

 

Bale chokes a little on that. Soul’s always been a private person who’d never discuss women as objects. Unfortunately for him, stuck in a situation he hasn’t asked for, that’s part of the perception he has to put out there. So he lays on the self deprecation a little more thickly. 

 

“Fuck you,” Noah says, ginning wide as he gives Soul an unasked for view of the wad of chew he’s got stuffed into his lower lip. At least Bale’s tone indicates more camaraderie than flat out hatred. One  _ fucking  _ positive, Soul seeths. “Gorgeous-- yeah I’ll give Albarn that. Woman-- nah, that ain’t a woman.” The guy pauses to put his lips to his spitter and Soul bites back the urge to vomit. “Scratch that-- she ain’t human.”

 

“Wow,” Soul drawls, with ironic amusement, what a generous fuck twat-- it’s like he’s filling out his suspect sheet without any help. Soul opens that black room in his soul so he can stuff those treacherous feelings that make him want to strangle that smug look off this asshole’s face.  “You really had to dig deep for that.” 

 

Bale claps a large hand on Soul’s shoulder and it takes everything Soul has not to drop the man to the worn wood floors below with a knee pressed firmly to the his windpipe. “Look man--” The hand is directing his sight to the woman he’s been studiously ignoring since the moment he walked in. He doesn’t need to look. 

 

“What?” he asks, shaking the hand off. “I already told you--” He’s not going to repeat the sentiment, for this fucker.

 

“Look beyond the exterior, Eater,” he says, leaning back to take a swig from his bottle. Bale is observing Maka with the eyes of entitlement that lead some men to think of women as objects or only good for one use. 

 

_ Beyond what? _ Soul wonders. He shrugs and takes a drink for lack of anything else to do, resisting the urge to down the whole Corona.

 

“You’re fucking dense,” Noah says, spit laughing his beer.

 

The indignation leaching from this guy is getting harder to bear. Growing up, Soul had gotten a lot of shit from his parental perfect older brother. He’d held a lot of resentment towards Weston until he realized that his brother had done what he did to deflect father’s attention from Soul. His older brother had been instrumental in teaching him how to shoot the shit with people who looked down on others. It was only after their parents divorce that the brothers were able to start repairing their relationship. But it shaped him. Soul has never been one to just blindly trust-- not after the childhood he had. So, this stupid plan had better pan out, Soul thinks, or he’s going to kill the man himself and plant the evidence to justify his actions. Kilik would back him up, maybe? Yeah. 

 

“The  _ Navy _ , Eater-- there sits the whole goddamned Navy wrapped up into a nice little human package. And that bitch’ll never let you forget it.”

 

A wave surges from that black room threatening to pull him under. Soul’s blood runs cold and the ringing G cuts out. Bale has landed on the one thing that haunts Soul.  _ He’s wrong. _ This asshole sitting next to him can’t be right. And he hates himself for asking the question he needs answered to calm his fears rather than to forward his mission. “Explain? ‘Cause I’m not following.”

 

Bale’s finished his beer and calls for another. “Man, it’s 1900-- seven-- she’s still in uniform.” 

 

_ Okay, _ Soul concedes and truthfully, he’d hoped for what-- Short skirt? Long jacket? Even so, remaining in uniform afterhours isn’t a unheard of. Everything he’s come to know about Maka speaks of her practicality. “So?” he says. “It’s not a crime.” Especially with guys like Bale around. Now Soul feels glad she didn’t get out of uniform. Not that he doesn’t have a gut twisting ache to see her hair down or out of Navy issued wear. That’s his own cross to bear.

 

“Please, she’s so hardcore, she bleeds saltwater.”

 

No, there’s no way she only lives her life for a career. “You’re exaggerating,” Soul says, with an attempt at bravado when in fact he’s rooted in place by something nameless.

 

Bale scoffs, “Man, in the three years I’ve been here,  _ I’ve  _ never seen her let her hair down once.” 

 

Soul isn’t sure if that should make him feel better or worse. “So, she doesn’t go out-- with friends?” He tries to recover his fumble, because her personal life is none of his goddamned business and he hates that he’s fucked up the reverse Bechdel. 

 

“Princess Prude over there?” That guffaw is grating. “Fuck no, not with friends, not with guys. Nah-- listen my man-- you can get anyone. Even  _ I _ wouldn’t waste my time on that.” 

 

If this conversation continues much longer, Soul is going to have to replace his teeth because he’s going to crack one, for sure, with the way his jaw is clenched shut. 

 

“Oh shit!” Bale says, clapping him hard on the back. “You’re fucking interested. You must like fire.” 

 

So, Bale isn’t as stupid as Soul’s been pretending he is.  _ Fuck _ . Soul gives some noncommittal jerk of his chin hoping it’s enough. It isn’t.

 

“Personally, I’ll drop a Benjamin to see you crash and burn.” Those dead brown eyes are looking at him, goading Soul into a situation he’s sure he’s going to regret. You don’t fucking bet on women, and never on one like Maka. He wants to punch basic human respect into this fucker’s skull ‘cause this guy makes  _ crass  _ look like a gentleman. In spite of that, he can ill afford to lose his in with his number one suspect.

 

“I don’t know Bale--” Soul gets up and slaps a bill on the table to cover his drink “--We still on for that tour tomorrow?”

 

Noah’s face goes wide with a greedy, lewd disbelief that curdles his features into a wicked grin.

 

_ This is a bad idea,  _ Soul thinks. A really fucking bad idea. 

 

“Dude, it’s never going to happen,” he laughs, finishing off his second beer. Bale’s faith in Maka burning him might be the only thing Soul can’t fault this guy on. “Yeah, you’re on for that tour. I can’t wait to hear how she runs you aground, shark bait.” 

 

With that Bale leaves the Officer’s Club laughing loudly. It’s a good thing, too, because snapping his neck was looking more and more enticing.

 

* * *

  
  


“Oh shit!” Liz squeaks, sitting up straighter and plastering a beauty queen smile to her face. “Omigod, he really  _ is _ hot.”

 

Maka looks over her right shoulder and immediately regrets it.  _ Shit! Fuck! _

 

“Hello ladies.” The smooth velvet of his voice jarrs her. It’s almost as if it carries a hat tip in there somewhere. “Maka.” 

 

She wants to scowl, because what in the hell does he mean by  _ that--  _ and why does her name feel like sin on his lips? And why must his eyes smolder? It’s bad enough they’re the most improbable color, red. Does he honestly need to flash them at unsuspecting people like that?

 

“ _ Hollywood. _ Did you run off your date?” She has to bite down her pain-- Liz doesn’t play around when it comes to shin kicks. 

 

“Was it that obvious?” he returns, unruffled by her sarcasm. “Can you blame me, when you two are sitting over here having so much fun?” 

 

Liz goes from bright to positively beaming. “Join us.” Even with boots, Maka doesn’t make her flinch. But the tightness around her mouth tells Maka Liz isn’t going to let her get away with her attempt at a retaliatory foot stomp. “Maka--” Liz turns predator focus on her, “scooch over so Soul can sit.” It isn’t a request. 

 

It’s the smile Liz flashes that makes Maka’s flight or fight defenses prickle. If she scoots over she’ll be trapped between Liz and Soul. Oh hells no. Moving away from Liz’s boots seems to be the best course of action. Feeling like a thirteen year old again, Maka slides out of the booth and dangerously close to Soul’s tall frame. “Here, take my place. I’m just going to--”   
  
“Get some water?” Liz asks innocently, blithely sipping the last of her drink. “You look  _ thirsty _ .” 

 

Maka bites down the howl of fury as her friend smiles. “Actually,  _ sensuous.”  _ Liz’s smile is downright wicked as she shakes her empty drink at her. 

 

Maka feels the heat of him on her backside as he steps around her to claim her newly vacated seat. “Sensuous?” Soul is looking from Liz to Maka and his face looks confused and yet too damned amused. Damn Liz for pulling that. 

 

Not missing a beat, Liz flings her blonde hair over her shoulder, smiling even more brilliantly. “Yeah, it’s Maka’s thing,” she explains. Maka can feel the heat rising in her face. “Since-you-is up, go get us another round. I’ll take another margarita, Patron.” 

 

Damnit, Maka wants to flip her off so bad but instead does a sharp turn and heads to the bar, leaving a widely grinning Soul behind.

 

“Hey, Sid,” she says waving over the longtime bartender. “Can I get a  _ virgin  _ margarita, a water, and a Corona Extra, lime too, please?” The man grunts acknowledgement of her order.

 

Her blood is still rushing in her ears as she turns back to the booth. That huddle would make any football coach proud. She tries not to fear for her life because she knows that although Liz means well, the woman is dangerous when there’s tequila in her system. 

 

//

 

The atmosphere changes the moment Maka heads for the bar and Soul is trying to recover from the whiplash when Liz rounds on him with the last thing he expects to hear. 

 

“Listen up, Eater, we don’t have much time.” All trace of the flirtatious doctor has gone right out the window, and Soul wonders if he should panic. “Here’s the deal, I’m going to level with you.”

 

It’s possible his conversation wasn’t the only one that failed Bechdel tonight. He’s not sure if he should be hopeful or ashamed. “Uhhh, alright.”

 

Liz’s bright blue eyes blink at him. “Alright-- OH thank god.” She sits back and tips back some ice, crunching on it thoughtfully in the exact way Soul hates. “And here I thought I’d have to bring up all those heated looks.”

 

He detects some Brooklyn in her, but more than anything-- goddamn it-- he must really be losing his grip on his bitchy resting face. “News to me, I thought maybe you two had something going,” he says, trying not to grunt, wishing he could soothe his bruised ego. 

 

Her hearty laughter fills the air while old sailors look around then share knowing looks. Yeah-- dirty sense of humor, good looks, and carefree attitude-- Kilik and her would be thick as thieves. “Puh-lease, your face cooled like lava hitting ocean water the moment Maka left. But shut it and listen.”

 

And he’s amused despite himself. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Are you daft? Because I expected better from an actor. You’re going about it all wrong and, seriously, it’s disappointing. You don’t get it, do you?” she says, looking over to the bar where Maka is gathering the drinks. “Shit, nevermind, just don’t fumble the pass,” she says, leaving him feeling clueless. Wes had played football, not him.

 

The drinks thunk on the table before them and before he can move over Maka’s boot hooks a nearby chair, dragging it to the table where she sits on it backwards. The gauntlet has barely been thrown before Liz sits up. “Oh shit, you know what I forgot to do?” She doesn’t wait for a follow up. “I was supposed to run by the base hospital for some tests after knock-off.” Then she dramatically checks her iWatch. “I still have time.” Liz stands, pushing her margarita back at Maka. “Sorry babe, can you finish that for me? Catch youse after sick call tomorrow, ‘kay!” 

 

Maka looks less than amused when Soul stands up, ever the gentleman his mother taught him to be. 

 

“Sit!” Liz says, glaring him down with a fierce smile before blowing air kisses at Maka. “See ya!”

 

He sits, laughing at the fact that he and Maka were played so hard-- forget pass, Liz blindsided them both. Soul reaches out for the bottle Maka brought back and pauses. It’s a the same brand as the one he’d been drinking with Bale. Well, someone’s observant. Soul tips the bottle at Maka after pushing the lime through. “Thanks.”

 

Her mouth is still tight glaring over her shoulder. The freckles are fading as her face cools. “Don’t mention it. I owed you.” 

 

Really? “For?” he asks, curiosity piqued. 

 

“Today-- mid-ships,” she says, by way of explanation.

 

_ That?! _ he chuckles. “Nah, I should be thanking you.” 

 

Her eyebrows disappear into the fringe he shouldn’t be staring at. “Why?”

 

A faint plinking in his head sounds hopeful. “My characterization.” It isn’t much of an explanation but the now added curious tilt of her head makes him continue. “Honest, I learned more about being a sailor after spending a few hours on my hands and knees on  _ The Death City _ than I had in two days in the office.”

 

The pink over the bridge of her nose is starting to glow again and he makes a brash decision to be honest with her, as honest as his  _ Need to Know _ orders allow. “I get that I’m an added burden to your already enormous list of priorities. I’m really sorry, you must have been voluntold to take me on-- but--” He looks at her, willing her to understand that there is more. “--I’ve a whole helluva lot riding on these next six weeks.” 

 

Tomorrow is Friday and he needs to earn Maka’s trust. He already knows she doesn’t want him here. He’s not tone deaf, it’s not like she’s been exactly subtle about it-- he gets it. Loud and clear. It doesn’t matter how enticing the package-- there’s no point to even take the time to open it, if there’s zero interest, and it’s crystal clear Maka isn’t interested.  He’d never scored high in manipulation tactics anyway. Not to mention he’s never been the type of man who’d use a woman as a means to an end. But he  _ needs  _ her. As an officer, she has the clearance to access the areas he needs to investigate. Maybe, if he could interest her...but he doubts it’d ever work. Then again, the worst that can happen is she says no. 

 

Maybe a change of topic wouldn’t hurt, he thinks, trying to gather his wits and plan on the fly.

 

“So,” he begins, curiosity brimming at her less than pleased reaction this morning, “what’s with the red ball caps?” 

 

“Chief Mifune gave you that,” she says, voice flat.

 

“You like it? I think it goes well with my eyes, don’t you?” he asks, tone light. It has the opposite intended effect. Her jaw is now working double time, oddly syncopated. “Alright, what’d I mess up this time? Bale also made a huge deal about me wearing it.” 

 

The green of her eyes intensifies and he can tell he’s stuck his boot in shit once more. “Can someone tell me what’s going on between you two?” ‘Cause he sure as hell doesn’t know. Had they dated? It’s none of his business-- none of his business but he’s had Noah pegged as the last man on earth Maka would date. Except the fact that a broken relationship might explain the animosity between them, maybe?

 

Bale is pushed to the back of his thoughts because there are a slew of thoughts and emotions emanating from her face, and he’s captivated. The G is sustained in a lower octave, humming through his entire body. What had made him accuse her of not being able to connect with people on a personal level? The more he observes, the more he sees. And it’s plain that her heart is there on her sleeve open to the world. It’s rash for sure, but also captivating.

 

It doesn’t appear like she’s going to say anything. “I’ve had to work with my share of obsequious shits,” he says, if only to fill the growing silence.

 

“Obsequious?” Is that grudging respect he detects? But, before he can purr, Maka says, “More like ring around the collar.”

 

It’s his turn to blink, did she just make a BDSM reference? He might be growing hot around his own collar-- Lord it might not mean what he thinks it does. Or-- “Sooo, what’s with you two?” Does he really want to know?

 

He’s crossed the line. Maka darts forward and he thinks she’s getting ready to leave but instead she reaches under the table and whips out her cover. It hits the table like an accusation. 

 

“Red is the color of the flying squad-- the rapid response team aboard a ship,” she explains, and there’s heated intensity behind her words. “They’re the first line of defense-- my division. The default cover is blue-- Red has to be  _ earned! _ ”

 

And there it is-- her passion is in the meaning of those symbols. Symbols he has zero respect for.  

 

Except he still hasn’t quite grasped why it means so much to him that he does one thing right by this woman when it’s never mattered to him before-- especially not concerning the Navy. Still though, she’s handed him his answer. His way in. 

 

And yet, he decides to hold onto that card until the opportune moment presents itself. 

 

“I didn’t know.” It’s an admission not a concession. However, Soul does have something he can offer her here and now.  It’s a change of topic, but he needs to steer away from the cover for now. “I am sorry, about this morning-- about Sizemore.” It’s slow and measured as he meets her intense gaze.

 

Maka sits back into her chair, cheeks blazing back to life. “Ah, mmm, I know.” It’s a quiet acknowledgement, but it’s gift wrapped for him, so he keeps his mouth shut. Instead he watches as her fingers draw patterns in the condensation of her water. The margarita hasn’t been touched. “I realized that afterwards, but I’d already set up mid-ships, and I’m--” Her chest heaves with her intake of breath, exhaling a single word “-- stubborn.” He can almost feel the slap of vulnerability from the look in her eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t big enough to call it off.” 

 

It’s the small embarrassed smile that renders him stupid. He blows the air out of his cheeks while he palms the hint of stubble he’s grown throughout the day. And before he can work out if it’s a good idea, says. “Really? So, make it up to me.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He continues undeterred. “Dance with me?” 

 

It’s true, there is a dance floor and the old guys have been feeding the machine quarters playing their old country favorites. Not his personal go-to for music of choice, but it’ll do for dancing. This, he concedes, is just for himself. Being around her somehow gives him the courage to be honest with himself, and he finds that he really does want this dance. 

 

Maka, on the other hand, looks deer in headlights, terrified. “Wait,  _ now? _ There’s no one dancing.”

 

“I didn’t take you for the type that hesitates ‘cause no one else is doing it.”  That may have been a poor choice of words, he thinks back to mid-ships this afternoon before Noah fucked things up. “No one’s here to see if you step on my toes,” he teases. “Our only audience looks like they fought in Vietnam.” The energy, that feel of an amp, is there humming, amplifying that G. The void grows slowly as he counts the measures in his head by the beating of his heart. 

 

Nine and a quarter later, Maka gets up from her chair. “Okay,” she says, walking out to the floor not looking to see if he’s followed as if he wouldn’t. She turns and laces her hands around his neck, barely giving him time to get his hands on her waist before she settles into a two step that might be a touch off the beat. 

 

“You lead in--” He cuts himself off with a hacking cough, before  _ in bed  _ slips out, but she does step on his toes. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, accident or not. What in the hell is wrong with him? He wants to palm his face. Lord, that’s the sort of shit  _ Eater  _ says to get in with assholes. 

 

“I lead in… what?” Blush burning bright with those green eyes searing him, Maka stares at him with a shrewd look. “Like… everything?”

 

It’s too hot. Soul can’t even formulate a response. It’s his turn to trip when she says, lightly, “Maybe I like taking turns.”

 

In his head  _ bad idea _ is on repeat. He’s not sure if he’s getting to her. Does she have any idea how she’s gotten to him? It’s not a safe thought. Find a life line, he thinks, fuck-- find anything. 

 

She shivers in his arms. “Are you cold?” he asks, noticing the goosebumps on her arms.

 

Those blinking lashes are tightening that G, sharpening it, but she’s staring at her arms like the reaction of her skin is alien. “No,” she breathes, and it brings that hint of jasmine back to assault his senses. Yeah, neither is he. 

 

“I bet it might actually be cooler in Death Valley, right now.” He hopes the grin sells it, because he’s a sitting duck. It’s not lost on him, the feeling of her body pressed to his. When had they gotten so close? Only too late does he realize that dancing is, as his head continues to chant, a very bad idea indeed. 

 

“Okay, what’s with that?” she asks, eyebrows knit together.  

 

_ With what? _ he wonders, and he gives a non committal jerk of the head, mouth frowning slightly to answer what is probably a rhetorical question. 

 

“Using humor to deflect a situation,” she says, to her forearms. “I’ve seen Liz use it countless times, and sometimes in the worst situations. Can’t you be serious?”

 

Wait, is this one of those worst situations? Something in her tone sets him on a razor’s edge and he isn’t sure why. “I can be serious,” he says, leaning away from her to let more of Evans out than Eater. “Can you be honest?” 

 

“What?” 

 

He’s in too deep now to question where this is coming from, but he genuinely has to know. “Why don’t you like me?” 

 

Maka looks startled but he’s sensed it, and decides to be honest about it. “C’mon Maka, it’s true.” They’re more or less standing still in the middle of the dance floor even if her arms remain hooked around his neck. “You haven’t liked me since the moment I stepped aboard-- maybe even before then.”

It’s interesting how he reads her glance to the booth, she’s wondering if Liz said anything, but her friend doesn’t deserve that. “Hey, she didn’t say anything. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out. You’ve been avoiding me like the plague. I get that you’re busy-- insanely so. But this afternoon made me realize it might be something more.” There’s so much tension in his hands that the G has long since gone sharp. He’s become attuned to where the note is taking him. 

 

“Soul, I --” she begins.

 

Cutting her off, he doesn’t even get to savor her saying his actual name, he has to let her go-- now. “Yeah, you did. I get it, you’re responsible for all the souls aboard your ship. Risking yourself for each and every one of them--” He shouldn’t push this, but he does. “-- Only I doubt you’d risk yours to save mine.”

 

“ _ That’s _ not true!” she says hotly.

 

He shrugs, “I don’t know. Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but I did bust my ass for you today. Not that it helped. Please understand, I honestly had no idea of the significance of your cover-- I didn’t ask for it. It seems you think I’m this entitled shit, and yet, you aren’t giving me the opportunity to earn it. It’ll be on your desk in the morning.”  _ Fuck, fuck, FUCK!  _ “I’ll, ah, talk to Captain Buttataki about a new running mate.” 

 

Soul isn’t sure how he manages to walk calmly off the dance floor, leaving Maka dazed like that, alone, in the middle of the floor. He’d like to say he’s doing it for her, to protect her. But, he’s a shit bag--  _ this? _ Walking away from her-- It’s for his own good. With concentrated effort, he makes his way to the bar and hands the big guy with the basketball jersey enough bills to cover the tab. 

 

Looking back to the floor is a mistake. Even from here she’s open vulnerability. How’s she to blame for being duped into thinking he’s supposed to be some Hollywood schmuck-- it’s his cover for fuck’s sake-- and he’s definitely nailed the behavior. Even if it’s true that she hasn’t given him a chance, she didn’t need to hear it that way. 

 

He can almost see Director Mjolnir’s approving smile and he feels physically sick. 

 

Outside in the cool saltwater air, Soul breathes some clarity back into the situation at hand. He hadn’t been assigned to this pleasure cruise to find lust-- like-- love--  _ fuck _ . Turning the key in the ignition, the motor growls into life, and the familiar vibrations calm his thoughts.  

 

He needs Maka to see reason, not that he’s proud of how he’s gone about it, he isn’t. Except, it’s crucial for his mission. Especially if his tour with Bale tomorrow doesn’t pan out. Hell, he’s not sure where any of this skulduggery is going to lead him because he has serious doubts either lieutenant is going to be eager to take him arm in arm and skipping to where he needs to go aboard the  _ USS Death City _ .

 

To the location of her nice, lethal stash of Black Blood  _ heroin.  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, betas save a life! Thanks to all my wonderful beta baes. I can't write without you.


	4. Chapter 4

Maka cranks the lever to the watertight door that leads to her office. Barely over the threshold, her eyes zero instantly on the red cover sitting in her ceremonial inbox. Most things are done through email these day,s but seeing it there is still a slap to the face.

Crossing over to the desk, she picks it up carefully. It's still warm—but that can't be right. It's her guilty conscience playing games on her. She'd ran into Soul not more than ten minutes ago on one of the ladders heading to the Chief's mess.

Her heart-rate is increasing-  _Shit_ \- she's really screwed up this time.

What would Mama say?

But, for the first time since she can remember, her subconscious remains quiet. No pearls of wisdom from the woman she's always admired from a distance. Marika Albarn wasn't the type to let something as trivial as motherhood keep her from goals or ambitions. So, it stands to reason, she wouldn't even know where to begin concerning her daughters emotions. Papa on the other hand-

A knock on the door followed by a, "Wassup?" evaporates her train of thought.

Maka looks up, startled. "Star." Her oldest friend always seems to know when she needs a friendly face. Apart from Liz, he's the only one she'll hug aboard the ship and she could use a hug today.

"Shortstack," he says, by way of greeting. "What's wrong?" Those teal green eyes home in on the cover grasped in her hand and Maka forces herself to relinquish the death grip she has on it.

"I'm- I don't know." It's as honest a revelation as she can give. What is her deal? Is she upset? Has she been unfair? Has she treated Soul the way jack-asses like Noah have treated her all her life? It's the only scenario Mama ever really prepared her for.

"Well," says Star, who brings out a cup of Starbucks and hands it to Maka. "Start talking."

She gives him the abbreviated version of the past two days. For his part, Star sits there listening, sitting so still she wonders if he hasn't passed out. Not that she can do anything about it if he has.

Maka has known Benjamin since grade school. They've been friends since their time in jiu jitsu- he'd been ranked a black belt since he was thirteen, christening himself with the name  _Black Star_. Mostly, Maka calls him Star. When the man gets it in his head to focus on a thing, it's hard to change the subject until all the cards are on the table. This, of course, also comes with a level of honesty she isn't ready to face.

"Anyway, I just found his cover." The admission tightens her throat. "He's probably already requested a new running mate." Maka blows air out of her cheeks as she slumps into her chair.

From across her desk there's a low whistle. "Man, Maks. When you blow it, you blow it-"

"Don't. Finish. That sentence, Star," Maka cuts him off; she doesn't need any more suggestive turns of phrases. She gets it. She's screwed up. "I was doing my job." It seems like a lame defense now that she's said it aloud.

"Job?" Star scoffs. "Maka, please-" Benji sits up giving her a serious look, scrubbing at his clean shaven face. "-you are not your parents. Obviously this guy's got to you- I was there at Captain's lunch. He's gotten under your skin and you're running." He waits until she looks at him with defensive fire in her eyes before he says, "Like a chicken." There's a silent  _ba-caw_  that makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Maka sags into her chair deflating because he isn't wrong, and hates that she's so transparent. Her head hits the back rest. A second later, there's a squeal of metal as the lever cranks and the door opens one more time, causing her to bolt straight up in her chair. "Soul!" Does she have to sound so breathless?

For his part Starinsky looks bored, but he's still stretched towards her, leaning over her desk. Maka watches Soul take in the situation, eyes observing her before narrowing as they observe Starinksy- who she's going to kill for giving Soul the most suggestive of shit eating grins- purposely making a benign situation appear intimate.

"Hey, aah, sorry," Soul says, eyes moving from her back to Star, and then with a tension in his jaw she's not seen, skirts behind Starinksy to get to the desk that has been assigned to him. "I won't be in your hair long. I- just- forgot something."

The hat in her hands? She extends it, foolishly hopeful, back to him.

It shouldn't feel like a physical slap, the way he recoils from it. "Nah," he says, with that almost hint of a grin she's become very attuned to. "That's yours. Keep it-" And it hurts. Maka watches as his hand goes to his waist where he extracts another cover. "-Mine's right here."

 _ **Blue**_.

Star's whistle, the  _Damn gurl, you fucked up again_  one, mirrors her feelings as it echoes in her brain. She is going to end him.

"You sure?" she asks. And maybe it's her imagination but something flickers in those deep, red eyes of his. Pain? Regret, maybe? As if she'd be so lucky. There's something she's known she needs to say and having Star be a witness to this is less than ideal but, Maka takes a breath before she loses her nerve. "Soul. Everything you said last night- you're right, I haven't been fair or given you a chance-" It's glaringly obvious now. "Um- if you're willing to stick out the remainder of your detail- assignment. I'd, um, like to make it up to you."

His eyes dart over to Star once, but since her oldest friend is now in her blind spot, she's unsure of what is transpiring there.

Still, she thinks, she maybe had a breakthrough, because whatever it is that she saw in his eyes a few moments ago is back. But the clock keeps ticking and he still hasn't said anything. Guts dancing, Maka knows she has to give him that thing her pride wants to selfishly keep back. Humility is a difficult pill to swallow. With the heat burning her face, she takes a breath and says, "I'm sorry."

The atmosphere in her office is tense but even Starinksy knows when to keep his mouth shut. God, why does she have to have an audience to her shame?

Something is there in his expression but she doesn't understand what it is, exactly. And then, he's shaking his head. To say,  _no?_  she wonders, her jaw tensing automatically. Or, is he confused? "Oh, ahh- I've a few things scheduled with your Chief today," he says, maybe a tad too casually. Maka notices his eyes flicker back to Star, observing him cooly. "How about I let you know Monday morning."

"What? You said you were requesting another running mate," Maka says, more forcefully than she intends. Her emotions are a bit all over the place now that he's thrown her a curve.

His hand comes up to scrub that starlight colored hair of his, before he dons the cover. Maka doesn't miss his precise placement but he interrupts her thoughts. "Ah, not yet." How can his eyes burn her like that? "Can I sit on it until Monday?" he asks.

What can she say? "Fine?" The 'i' drags as Soul backs out of the workstation, and Maka watches as he crosses to the door. "Sure. I can wait..."

He doesn't say anything else, but he does touch the bill of the cover before he exits. For his part, Star shoots him a lazy finger gun from where he sits. After Soul's gone, her long time friend turns to give Maka a very loaded look.

Well, shit, she thinks.

* * *

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Soul's body goes rigid with the crash of a fortissimo chord that is a second too late in warning. Maybe he isn't as attuned to her as he thinks he is. Not that he has time to assess that, because he's got a half-second to think of a way out of this. His fingers are frozen a mere couple of inches from the digital keypad of the cipher lock. He does manage to stuff his shock into that black room, before plastering a stupid grin on his face as he turns.

Maka is halfway down the fifteen foot passageway, red ball cap pulled low, the hot color complimenting the furious green of her eyes. "Would you believe me if I said I was lost?" he asks. It's a misplaced hopeful offer.

"No!" she says, drawing out the vowel into two distinct sounds.

He bites down on a chuckle because he's an idiot for playing that card to begin with. "Alright," he says, crossing his arms. "I was invited, okay?"

The thrill he feels at her advance is probably unwarranted, but he's starting to think he has no choice in his bodily reaction to the matter.

"Do you have  _any_  idea what's beyond that door?" she asks; those green eyes only melt him further.

 _No,_ he thinks, eyeing the steel possessively again.  _But I have a really strong desire to find out._ "Let me guess: sensitive, classified-wait." And fuck him for doing his older brother's eyebrow waggle but it feels right. "You can't tell me or you'd have to silence me forever? Feed me to the sharks?"

She is  _not_ amused. "Mr.  _Eater_ \- when you came aboard, you were briefed. We've allowed you access to all areas of the ship, save two- Radio and Nuclear Support. I'll ask again, what do you think you're doing?"

Of course she'd catch him outside of the Nuclear Support Facility. Just then, there's the electrical click of releasing maglocks and out comes Lieutenant Bale with a smug grin on his face. "Eater, look atchu- right on time," he says.

Soul watches helplessly as Bale's eyes land on Maka. The almost physical need to protect her from that sneer winds him. "Ahh, you brought the ol' ball and chain. What, no nuts to bust, DCA?"

 _God_ , Soul thinks, he's oh for two with impeccable timing for shitheads and their misogynistic bull. It's probably for the best that Maka  _isn't_ interested in him- not that it helps his situation out any- because how the hell does he explain having to get near this dick without blowing his cover? He doesn't. "I was being honest," he says, turning to her to try and convey with his eyes that he did, in fact, tell her the truth. The short end of the stick is- it's clear to anyone with sense that being invited by Noah is clearly not the lesser of any evils in this situation.

Maka ignores Bale's jab- instead she turns heated green eyes at Soul, who eyes the sign on passageway fire extinguisher housing warily: In case of emergency- Break Glass. Then regrets the thought; she has every right to her anger.

"I see  _why_ you have to consider my offer, Hollywood _._  If you'll excuse me, I need to continue my rounds," she says. Even though she gives him wide berth, it's like her  _wake_ shoulders past him angrily. There might be actual sparks coming off her boots as she stomps away.

Of all the people to get caught by trying to case the lock, it had to be Maka,  _of course._  Goddamn it all. He kicks himself for forgetting the fact she's Command Duty Officer today, meaning she's making routine rounds of the ship.

Then again, it also means she'll be sleeping on the ship tonight. Maybe, just maybe, he can find a way to bridge this mess with her later.

"Man, something's not right up there," Noah says, jabbing a finger at his head. "DCA snarls and you smile. And here, I did not have you pegged for a masochist."

Something about his lusty grin makes Soul cringe hard, if only on the inside. "If you can't take the heat..." The rest of the sentence is lost to him, and the added grin feels wooden and unnatural. But, he can ill afford to burn this bridge.

"Yeah, yeah." Bale puts his hands up as a sign of submission that Soul doesn't buy.

"So, how about this tour?" Soul asks, getting back to the plan at hand.

Bale's mocking laughter grates oh Soul's nerves as the lieutenant turns his back, making it impossible to get a line on the numbers he's punching into the keypad. It's frustrating to Soul that he has to grudgingly give the guy some credit.

When the maglocks release, Soul feels his anticipation soar as the door swings open. Only to fizzle and deflate like a sad helium-less balloon upon entering the most boring office Soul has  _ever_  laid eyes on.

 _This?_ This is what he's been near burning bridges to try to gain access to? It's basically... well, empty.

There are two workstations, standard issued, and one of the walls is lined with non-descript ordinary gray cabinets.

 _Fuck!_  He was sure something,  _anything,_ would be in this place, but there's nothing. The only thing of any interest is the second steel door that mirrors the one he's just walked through, with a second keypad and maglocks. Which seals it- the Black Blood must be through  _that_ door!

Soul sucks in a whistle and lets the disappointment color his face. "Wow. Man, I thought I was going to see some nukes."

It must serve him because Bale bursts into louder grating laughter before his face goes ultra serious giving Soul whiplash. "We're not that kind of ship, Eater."

Soul's completely off-footed. What just happened- did something tip Bale off?

Bale's face goes back to a weird grin. "I'm just messing with you, Eater." He claps Soul hard on the shoulder. "And while I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of any heavy-duty stuff, we mainly stick to the basic run of the mill repairs." He's still cracking up. "I knew it. I had a feeling that's what you were after."

"Yeah, you got me." Soul breathes a cautious sigh of relief. Actually, he's after much more than that seeing as his job depends on it. His eyes go back to the second door across the way, eyeing it possessively. "Okay, so then, what kind of repairs do you do?"

"Equipment testing, pipe and valve repairs, mainly. The things that are used in the propulsion plants of nuclear powered vessels," Bale shrugs as he waves an idle hand, and it's clear by his tone that his line of work doesn't hold much interest for him.

Soul laughs in spite of himself. "No offense- that sounds boring as fuck."

Noah shrugs with a flippant grin. He's sitting at his desk, boots propped on the work surface as he tosses up a ball he's fished out of a desk drawer. "Eh, it's a living," he says, and it's punctuated by the catch.

Time to set his next net, Soul thinks. "Soooo, what's behind door number two?" he asks.

"Haha, dream on, Eater," Noah says, catching the ball again. "That's classified." The wicked smile that stretches his face tells Soul that Bale loves lording his position of power over the few.

Thank god he hadn't been cocky enough to burn Maka this morning. That caution may prove to be his way into that second area yet. "Alright, I get it," he concedes, letting it go for now. "Well, uh, thanks for the tour-" all of one measly office "- I'll let you go so you can head out."

"Don't mention it," Noah says, tossing the ball one last time before restoring it back to the drawer. He gets up with a groan and back stretch. "You wanna grab a few beers at the club?"

 _Yeah, not really_ , Soul thinks but doesn't say it. "Nah, man, I've got something else to do."

"If by something, you mean  _someone,_ " Noah leers, that lustful look back on his face.

It makes Soul want to use Bale's face to scrub barnacles off the side of the ship. "Damn, you got me." Soul tries not to choke on the words. This jackass is his means to an end- he's going to find the Black Blood and if it doesn't belong to Bale he might break the code of ethics and pin some on the asshole anyway.

Whatever Noah is about to say is cut off by a loud buzz and release of magnetic locks- the second door!

Soul wills every string tensed in his body to relax before he turns to the door across the way as slowly as possible.

"Hey-o! Bale-  _Eater,_ what's up?"

The greeting reverberates off the bulkheads-  _Lieutenant Starinsky._ And what in the hell is that?!

The wires go taut again as Soul watches the strawberry blonde with the wild blue eyes- the same lieutenant who'd cleared his bags the first day, who had sat extremely close to Maka as they laughed and joked during the Captain's lunch, and the very same who just this morning sat silent during that tense exchange with Maka- walk in with a limp body hoisted over a muscular shoulder. The man proceeds to flop the fake corpse over his shoulder right onto the desktop, and Soul watches the dummy's head bounce off the surface with a sickening thud.  _What's_ with  _this guy?_

Bale is laughing maniacally at Soul's reaction to the extremely gross, yet hauntingly accurate replica of a full size person with a gaping chest wound, three degree burns to face and neck, and an eye that dangles nonchalantly from its socket, an eye that rolls to a stop on it's nerve and hurls unspoken judgement at Soul. "Eater, meet Lieutenant Benjamin Starinsky and the DCA's boyfriend. Starinsky, Soul Eater," Noah says, as casually as if the whole bizarre scenario is routine.

Soul does a double take from Bale to Starinsky- DCA's  _boyfriend_? Hadn't that megalomaniac told him just yesterday that she doesn't date?!

Except, Starinsky's also glaring at Bale. "Oh-em-gee, Noah,  _you're so funny._ " He says this in a valley girl tone that indicates everything but an honest statement. "Hey," he says, extending a beefy hand to Soul. "Starinsky, we've met. I checked your bag- I was at Cap't'n Buttataki's lunch, you remember," he says, a wild grin on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Eyes that clearly convey-  _I haven't forgotten this morning, either._

"Sure do," Soul says, reciprocating the shake and wanting very much to crush the man's hand.

"I was blessed with a face that's hard to forget," Starinsky says, without a shred of humility. "Don't worry about that guy," he adds hiking a thumb back at Bale. "He's had it out for Maks ever since she shot him down-" Soul watches Noah's face go ballistic in point-oh-three. Starinsky guffaws at Noah's expense, while he pantomimes a plane crashing and burning, complete with huge hand explosion at the end and sound effects.

"Fuck you, Starinsky," Bale says.

"You wish," the man returns, blowing a kiss with straight-faced confidence in his sex appeal. Soul can't find it in his heart to feel sorry at all for Bale, who is now clearly uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. Soul barely manages to keep his mirth buried deep.

Shame-faced, Noah turns his anger to the corpse. "What's with the bitch's boyfriend, anyway?"

It feels like an egg has been cracked over his head, exorcising the jealousy demon that had flared up as it clicks. Bale meant the fake corpse is the boyfriend- not Lieutenant Starinsky. Except now, Soul wants to punch that fucker in the face. He isn't the only one either since Starinsky is also glaring at Bale.

"I'm planning a surprise for Maka's birthday," Starinsky says, before he turns Red Bull fueled eyes at Soul. "Didn't she give you the stateroom next to hers?"

She  _what?!_  That's news to him and Soul scrambles to catalog the new information. She put him  _next_  to her. "Uh, yeah, on the right- ah, starboard- I think?"

"Excellent," Benjamin says with an over-bright, wide grin that splits his face and Soul has a bad feeling. "Relax, man," Starinsky says, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "It's just a little birthday surprise for Maks- just a warm body to snuggle with in her rack."

Soul stares down at the mutilated corpse and back up at Starinsky's wild face. There's no way he's going to let these jack wagons do this to Maka. Sure, she cracks the whip hard- and if this is the level of scum she's forced to deal with, even Soul can't fault her for that- but that doesn't give these guys the right. Mission or not- Maka doesn't deserve this. He'll find a way to save her this humiliation, but for now, he keeps his mouth shut.

* * *

In the shower room of the  _USS Death City_ , Maka snaps the shower cap over her hair. She slaps her towel over the curtain rail before she gets in, jerking the curtain shut and blasting herself with frigid water. At this point, she needs all the help she can get controlling her temper. Just thinking about  _him_  makes her blood hot.

_Soul Eater._

That pretentious name of his makes her vibrate with emotions she'd rather not name. The next time she sees his arrogant, classically defined face she's going to rip that movie star smile off, right along with that dimple that forms in his chin when he grins! Maka strangles her bottle of jasmine soap, squeezing a measure into her palm so she can lather up her neck.

Invited!  _Invited into the NSF_. Just how stupid is Bale? Her shriek echoes off the bulkheads.

The sound of the shower next to hers startles her out of her growing drama. "Hey, you okay in there?" Liz calls out, and Maka berates herself for letting her anger get the best of her. "I suggest you don't answer with 'I'm fine' or I'll come in there to chat," Liz threatens.

It's happened on another occasion, so Maka knows her friend will brave a frigid shower. Still, she cranks it down a little lower. "Bale," she grits out.

Steam is billowing from Liz's side, so Maka feels she's safe, for the time being. "What'd he do this time?"

"He invited  _Hollywood_ into nuclear support! Are we now rolling out the red carpet for anyone who's had fifteen minutes of fame now?" Maka huffs, her muscles starting to go numb with the cold.

Liz cuts in. "Hey now, be kind- you haven't even seen the movie."

The mental shriek about the movie drowns out her thoughts for a second. "I mean, how stupid does Noah have to be?" She can feel shivers starting but they're due to anger and not the cold. "Letting him into the office is beyond stupid. What if he decides to see whose dick is bigger and lets him into the inner sanctum, all because he has to gloat?"

From next door there is only silence so Maka's sure she's driven her point home; she knows she isn't wrong here.

"Don't you think you're taking it a bit too far, Maka?" Liz's reprimand is quiet and therefore hits harder. "Bale's a dumbass, sure, but he isn't a security risk."

 _That we know of,_ Maka fumes stubbornly. Still, there's nothing she can say so she settles for trying to let the low flow shower head exfoliate her face off. In the stall next door, Liz starts singing something that sounds suspiciously like  _Titanium._

" _Well, it's not as if he hasn't already gone and requested Bale to be his new running mate. They're_ — _they're so buddy buddy now,"_ Maka whispers, vehemently into the running stream. " _Good for him, it's not like I care anyway."_

"You know, as an honest person," Liz says. "You sure suck at lying to yourself. Why's he requesting a new running mate anyway?"

Maka's forehead thunks on the stall. "You've got to be kidding me. Surely, you didn't hear that!"

"I never kid," says Liz. "And don't call me Shirley- answer the question." Liz's old  _Airplane_ joke manages to crack her dark mood.

Maka sighs, "Uh, well, he called me out after you left the bar the other night. Which, by the way, I'm still mad at you for that!"

"Eh, what else is new." Liz isn't fazed, and the sound of her shower cuts off. "You know Captain isn't going to take it lightly, you blowing him off like that. Maka, he was assigned to you for a reason. Did you stop to consider that?"

Maka is scrambling to finish her shower in an effort to not listen to reason.

"Look, my honest opinion-"

"Didn't ask for one," Maka tries to cut her off.

"- is there's something else underlying your anger." Liz finishes her thought. "Are you ovulating? 'Cause if not, you have no excuse for the way you've been acting towards him. Seriously, there's this chemical attraction between the two of you. I've said it before, you're not your parents. You're allowed to go out there and make your own mistakes. Please, just jump that tiger."

"Jesus!" Maka screeches, indignant.

"What? Is  _he_ in here too?" Liz asks with a laugh.

Maka scrubs at her blush but she peeks out of the curtain after a moment. "I'm not  _you_. Some of us are terrified-" Forget terrified, Maka slams that mental closet shut. Even if she felt so inclined-  _She doesn't!-_ it's forbidden on a ship, at any rate.

Liz is dressed in old sweat pants and tank top, her hair wrapped in a microfiber turbie twist and she still looks lovely. Her face reflects compassion for her friend. She cups Maka's face. "You're  _you_ , Maka," she says softly. "When are you going to understand that you're the bravest person I know?" She kisses the tip of Maka's nose. "Think of you, ask yourself what is it that you  _really_ want. And promise me, you won't stand in your own way."

Maka watches her go, before she slumps against the wall of the shower, defeated.

What  _does_  she want? Her hands are shaking as she lathers the rest of her body, and then holy hell the memory of Soul, the feel of his hand on her face the other day, the way his eyes just sear her is all she can think of.  _You could use a good scrubbing yourself-_

Oh dear sweet death no, now is not the time to be having these thoughts! Maka cranks the water to sub-zero, finishing her shower as quickly as she can.

The aftereffect of the frigid water means her body now feels toasty warm in the slightly less frigid shower room air. Maka dons her green silk kimono, a gift from her long time friend Tsubaki, and shakes her hair out of the cap.

Her flip flops reiterate every point she has to make about not becoming  _involved,_  let alone fantasizing about Soul. He isn't her type. He's not even interested in her. She crosses her arms more securely around what minimal assets she does have. But the major one is, he  _isn't_ sticking around.

Some things aren't meant to be and he can't fit into her plans. Her parents- the complete failure of their sham marriage- had seen to that.

* * *

That part of his brain that has linked to her wavelength glissandos to that G, ending with the door to her stateroom closing.  _She's back._

Soul finishes the entry he's drafted in his notebook before he shuts it and replaces it on the items in his safe, snapping the door shut, and then spins the dial back to his home number. He's been mulling what to say to her ever since he returned from his tour of- the NSF. His teeth grind together. The emptiness of the office deeply offends him.

The fact he can't put a finger on this tension between him and Maka doesn't help. He doesn't understand; he'd given up on the idea of meaningful attraction a long time ago. The whole idea makes him blow the air out of his cheeks. Given what he'd lived through with his family- what his mother had gone through. The resentment washes over him; his father had broken every promise he'd ever made to their family.

Soul takes a deep breath, pushing those thoughts away. He's trying desperately to figure out a way to get Maka to trust him without  _everything else_  getting in the way. He's not a manipulator. And the idea of forcing someone into a false trust based on physical feelings doesn't sit well with his ethos. He might play a twisted son of a bitch on the big screen, but it's a far cry from who he really is.

The true wrench is he does want her- god, if he wasn't stuck in this web of lies, he'd be able to pursue her free and clear- not that she thinks much of him. Still, something about this morning has his thoughts chasing each other like a dog fixated on a tail that's just out of reach. She'd felt bad, that much he'd understood, but not the  _why_. Why her sudden change of heart-  _mind_ , he autocorrects.

Noah's words come back to bite him. " _Really look at her- that's the whole damned Navy wrapped up in a neat package and she's never going to let you forget it."_

He groans, thunking his head on the writing surface. That inescapable fact and her attitude towards him are the stakes he needs to crucify himself on- it doesn't matter how he feels. She doesn't want him near her. And yet, there's something in her eyes- in the way she takes him in that melts him. It's a gut feeling, she's trying not to look at him. And the way the scent of jasmine seems to intensify around her in those moments. The whole thing is driving him nuts.

Pushing himself upright, his fingers drum out a nervous beat on the pull down writing desk. He has to speak to her; if anything, he owes her an apology about what happened in the passageway earlier. The ringing in his head intensifies as he gets up, flipping the lid and concealing the safe.

Standing outside his door, it's still hard to believe she's placed him next to her stateroom, but it was probably out of convenience more than some underlying factor. Shaking the thought from his head, his hand hesitates a fraction of a beat before his fist raps out three firm knocks.

"Enter!"

With no idea of what he's doing, he takes one last cleansing breath before turning the latch. Then he steps over the lip and forgets how to breathe.

Well, he's had a good run at this life, he can probably check out early because,  _good, god almighty._

"The folder's there on my desk, Chief," Maka says. Her back is turned to him as she stands at the far end of her quarters next to the modular wall, in front of the closed porthole. Soul can't move. He's rooted to the spot, welded in place.

Her  _hair_  is down. In one straight line down her back, spun ash gold over the emerald green of her robe, the sight of which has solidified in his groin- he hasn't been this embarrassed since freshman year- a girl from his memory had hair similar in color that she'd wear in pigtails, and he'd felt so ashamed. That was then and it's never bothered him since so, this- this is a new form of torture.

It's an image he doesn't want to forget. Still though, she's expecting someone else, so he clears his throat.

Maka whirls around when she realizes he isn't the person she's been expecting. The way she says, "Soul!" Eyes wide, the white t-shirt she's holding fluttering to her feet, only makes his current situation worse. Well, he really knows how to pine his heart away.

That husky whisper makes him acutely aware that he now has zero plan, and lacks the mental capacity to improvise. Still though, he came for a reason- one he can't exactly remember at the moment. He has to do something. As nonchalantly as he can, he scans her quarters for anything that can save him.

It's as if the universe hears him when his eyes light on the set of keys on her rack- her keys. And somewhere on that keyring he remembers is the one that will get him into nuclear support- if he had the electronic pin. Which he doesn't have.

His eyes flit past the keys- a mistake. All he sees is white cotton- bikini cut briefs. He's momentarily sidetracked, wondering if women also refer to their underwear as briefs- which next to that garment is a white… bra? He's never seen one that looks like that, like a sports bra but not quite, and not those padded things the girls wore on set much to his lack of interest. No this looks practical, pretty. He likes it-

"Hollywood!" She barks at him, short circuiting his mental faculties. He's now even more lost than the moment prior. Who the hell is he?! "Can I help you with something?" she snaps.

His gaze is back to hers like she's zapped him. How can she be that serious in nothing but a green robe and her hair down, like  _that_ , around her shoulders and hanging past pert tits protesting the restraint of the silk? Like a fool he'd assumed she needed her uniform to pull off that serious lieutenant glare. He's so wrong.

That chill in her eyes helps him regain some of his composure. Soul locks onto it, and his first logical train of thought clicks into place. He takes a deep breath before taking a step closer. "Sorry, I uh, I came to give you an apology-" He's caught her off guard with that, thank fuck "- and an answer."

She has this ability to morph from surprise straight to apprehension that would be extremely fascinating if it wasn't directed at him. "I see. It's fine, no need to apologize-" Her fingers are fidgeting with the tie of her robe. "- I get it, Bale isn't some stick in the mud lieutenant like I am," she says.

What is she talking about? He's confused by her line of reasoning. But, she's still talking. "If that's all-"

"Maka," he says, cutting her off because she didn't read him right. His hand comes up to scrub through his hair in relief- he doesn't miss how it draws her attention. "No, you've got it wrong."

He's close enough now to see how long those lashes really are as they blink trying to dust the freckles from her cheeks. "I came to apologize for this afternoon- I am  _so_ sorry, for all the shit Bale said."

"Why?" she asks, and he can't help but notice that the green has gone almost smokey, like evergreens in mountain mist. "Shouldn't he be the one to apologize?"

It's his turn to blink.  _Well, yeah?_  "Buhhh... If I hadn't been there-" He shakes his head, trying to reorganize his newly scattered thoughts. When he turns back to her, he sees those freckles are backlit. "Anyway, you're right, he should- but he isn't, so here I am. Also-" He's closer now, much closer, unaware of having made the conscience decision to actually move. "-I don't want another running mate-" The G is lengthening into a vibrato in his mind, paced to his heart beats but seemingly pulling the string in tighter, closer. He's close enough to smell the dewiness of her skin after her shower. "I want  _you_."

It's the honest truth, the sustained note strains in his subconscious. He isn't prepared for the effect it has on her, his only thought had been to tell her the truth. Except, which truth has he just admitted to? Yes he wants her as a running mate, but lord have mercy on his soul, because he understands, in this moment, exactly how many other ways he wants her.

Something is there, in the depths of her eyes, that reaches back to him. The way the smokey green deepens even more so. Soul bites back the groan because he's already straining against the fly of his jeans with her scent all around him.

His fingers are digging into the meat of his palms to ground him in some reality that doesn't involve him raking his fingers through her hair to see if it's as silky as the ivory of piano keys. Her chest is rising and falling, drawing his eyes to the tantalizing vee formed by the silk of her robe. There's something else too, an intricate gold chain hanging tight that draws his curiosity down the length of the chain that ends in a jade heart.

It's a trap.

He didn't think it possible for sternums to be so mesmerizing, that transition of her chest to the small, yet rounded hint of a perfect breast.

Time has slowed but his hands come up, fingering the edge of the robe to pull it more securely, obscuring his view of her necklace and sculpted collar bones, eliciting a soft gasp from her.

Soul's eyes are drawn to the space between her parted lips, his heart working overtime in his chest. His hands remain on the silk as he watches her meet his gaze. Maka's emotions are laid bare in her eyes and he can't look away. His throat feels tight and raw. " _Beautiful._ " Comes out in a hoarse whisper. Not in reference to any hint of a necklace or silk robe-  _she_ is beautiful.

"Thank you," she breathes, it's shaky and laced with the heady scent of jasmine.

Gravity has shifted because it's drawing him to her. He wants- fuck him, he wants to just wrap his arms around her and to inhale- that, even that would be enough, he lies to himself.

"Kiss me."

If he hadn't watched her mouth form the words, he'd swear he's hallucinating his deepest desires. Her hands are on his waist as tense as his hands that haven't relinquished the hold of her robe. "Yeah?" he asks- is he manipulating this plane of existence? He can't be sure anymore.

His palm reaches out to gently coax her stubborn jaw upward so he can discern the meaning of her words through her eyes. The confidence tempered by the vulnerability there is intoxicating. He savors it as it draws him in slowly, until his lips claim hers, a softness he explores with his tongue, mapping the shape of her mouth, tracing the curves over and over.

None of it does anything to stem the desire that burns hotter, inflamed as he draws in her bottom lip just enough to tease it with his teeth before he runs his tongue over the swelling.

Her hands have come up exploring his arms, fingers searching, kneading, working their way around to his upper back. The air hisses from his lungs when she finds where the stress of this case lives. She's on stretched tip toes and with a searching, curious tongue, deepens their kiss, breaking something deep within him.

An involuntary moan escapes him as he gives in and sinks his hands into her hair, making her gasp as her head tilts back. He's lost and doesn't want to be found, but he knows restraint and shows it as his lips explore her neck. He'd never jeopardize her position on the ship by doing something as crude as marking up her neck, not that he doesn't want to-  _Fuck, does he want-_  but he's a man, not an animal.

Maka's panting breath in his ear is going to end him, his mouth greedily seeks hers out- and it can't just be him, not with the way her tongue seeks his hard, demanding, taking him to an edge he's never been to, fueled by instinct alone because he sure as shit doesn't have much of any experience.

Soul is acutely aware of how every inch of her is pressed tightly and yet not tight enough to his body. Aware of her tummy pressing hard against the fly of his jeans, how that top button is going to be indented in her perfect skin. His hands have a mind of their own. Removing them from her hair is an act of rebellion but he must. The silk burns in his hands as they travel down the sides of her ribs, one thumb is distracted by the side of a tit that's pressed firmly to his chest before it wraps around her waist firmly. The second arm has a more pressing job to keep her hips from reducing him to ash. He moans at the way her ass fills his palm but he has mercifully stilled those hips.

 _What in seven hells is he doing?!_  Soul tears his hands away, only to hold her shoulders tightly because he needs to tear himself away, now! Not that he has the strength. God, he knows better- how had he lost control like this? With a deep breath, he backs away from Maka.

The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated by his ragged breathing and her own shallow breaths. His own shock mirrored in her face. There's no way in hell- had he ever given into fantasy- that he could've conjured that up. That first hit that's bound to turn him into an addict.

Soul forces himself to suck in air slowly as the weight of what has just happened intensifies the stress in his shoulders. Wouldn't dad be proud now? He's blown it- his career, fuck. A good strategist might have anticipated a scenario where a kiss happened. And it would've been a slow, soft thing. It might have helped establish rapport. Somehow, Soul never considered the possibility.

Because this?! There's nothing safe about this. Not for her- and certainly not for him.

He's thinking fast, he has to say something, anything that doesn't get his ass kicked out of her unit. At this point a new running mate might be a blessing-  _fuck_ \- how did he mess up this badly?

The knock on her door startles them out of their thoughts.  _Shit!_ "That's your Chief," he blurts.

Maka's gaze goes frantic. "Oh my god."

Soul takes two steps back to her, adjusting the robe from where he'd messed it up in his hurry to step away. "Hey," he says, drawing her attention back to his. "Here-" He reaches over for the folder, handing it to her. His eyes are scanning the room but there are no hiding places- save one. "I'll stand in the corner, he won't see me." He tries to assure her.

" _Why are you doing this?"_ she hisses at him.

He's affronted. He's not some asshole. What they'd just been doing has this feel of recklessness- that's not the image she gives on the ship. Holy hell, fuck him, now that he knows what she's capable of. In answer, his face spazzes as he indicates his still very visible situation. " _Would you rather I just chill out in the open like this? I'm thinking of_ you  _here,"_ he whispers, defensively.

Those lashes flutter as she takes him in with wide green eyes, confusion coloring her face red. " _That's it?"_  she asks.

" _Woman?! Did you think-"_  Her face tells him everything he needs to know. He gets it, she thinks he'd use it to blackmail her or something. " _That's not who I am,_ " he says, let her chew on that if she has to.

"DCA! You awake in there?" comes the voice of her Chief.

The color drains from her face but he scrambles into place, urging her to just trust him.

"Yes! Just a minute!" she barks at the door, hauling it open and wiping the emotions from her face as Soul disappears from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! I couldn't post without the help of my dear betas!


	5. Chapter 5

 

It’s Monday, they’ve been out to sea for less than twenty-four hours, and Soul’s already landed himself in a heap.

 

“Relax--” Soul eyes Dr. Thompson warily as she inserts the needle into the small bottle of anesthetic before giving him a winning smile “--this won’t hurt a bit,” she says, priming the syringe. 

 

His eyebrows knit together. “That’s the biggest lie known to man, doc,” he says. In reality, he isn’t fond of needles-- not when he’s seen what they do at his day job. 

 

Dr. Thompson laughs heartily as she caps the needle and sets the syringe carefully on the absorption pad covering the tray attached to his chair. “No, I believe-- ‘I’ll call you’ takes that honor,” she says, flatly. 

 

_ Well, damn, _ she does have a point though, and he isn’t going to argue. Not while at her mercy. Especially not when she has to take into consideration the pitch and roll of a twenty-ton vessel while stitching up his forearm.

 

“And just how did you slice up your arm?” she asks conversationally, while rounding the examination table and pulling a pair of rubber gloves from the box located at the side. These she snaps into place, giving him an expectant look.

 

Wait? Had Maka not mentioned anything to her, he wonders. Then again, from the look on her face, the way those blue eyes are prodding-- no. She has absolutely no idea that anything happened. Interesting, he thinks. 

 

“This?” he asks, carefully rolling up the torn sleeve of his working blues to reveal a three inch gash in his forearm. “I was down in Engineering helping repair a steam line.” He doesn’t have any place to go so he leans back to observe her reaction. 

 

“Come again?” Dr. Thompson eyes flit between his expression and the damage.

 

“DCA assigned me to her leading Petty Officer. I’ve been working alongside them since we got underway this morning,” he says with a grin, because Maka had shown a major turn of heart since Friday night. 

 

The good doctor takes out an antiseptic wipe, cleaning around the edges of the gash. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me Maka let you work alongside her  _ welders _ ?” He grits his teeth as she dabs without remorse. “Riiiight. Next you’ll tell me you’re tagging along next time she has bridge watch.” The bloody wipe goes into the trash. 

 

“She, ah, did mention something about driving the ship tonight,” he goads. Probably not the wisest move, in hindsight. But, she’s easy to talk to. 

 

“Okay, so you  _ clearly  _ didn’t need my help at the club.” Her hand closes around the syringe and she uses it to punctuate her question. “Just what in hell happened, after that drink?” she asks, before uncapping the needle and injecting around the gash with Lidocaine. 

 

It’s fascinating to Soul that Maka is as tight lipped about her personal business as he is. He grins despite the minimal carnage. “That’s, ah--” 

 

The door to the exam room bursts open, admitting the subject of their discussion. The red ball cap is pulled low over stormy green eyes, but it’s the line of her mouth that has his attention-- is the good lieutenant  _ worried _ ? Surely, not about him. The idea that she might be burns bright in his gut, buoying the pain in his arm. 

 

Dr. Thompson looks up from where she’s stitching his arm back together. “Nice to see you too, Maka. I’ve another customer from your division. Surprise, surprise, huh?” 

 

“Very funny, Liz. How’s the patient?” she asks.

 

“Oh, ya know--  _ alive _ ,” she says as she sets another stitch. “I appreciate you allowing me to practice my cross stitch, you know how bored I get on these outings. Pull up a seat, I’ll be done in a minute.” 

 

If Soul was a cat, he might be purring at all this fretting and worrying, but he does note a hint of relief in Maka’s face. “So stupid, should never have let you do this.” It’s so low he almost doesn’t hear it.

 

His face splits into a grin. “Gee, lieutenant, I didn’t know you cared.” 

 

“Care?” she scoffs, coughing out the word, but there’s a smile behind the sarcasm. “No, Hollywood, I’m just in CYA--” Liz snorts at this “--mode. In case you decide to sue the Navy because I’ve gotten your pretty face damaged,” she says.

 

He wants to smile but mouths a wordless, ow. “That’s harsh,” he says, but then asks, “Wait, what does  _ she  _ mean  _ see why ai? _ ” Is it a Navy acronym for civilians suing the Navy? ‘Cause she can’t mean what he thinks she does.

 

Liz looks up, from her work. “Do explain our plethora of infinite acronyms to the good civilian, Lieutenant Albarn.”

 

The tugging of his skin doesn’t hold a candle to Maka’s beet red face. “Cover your ass-- I mean mine--” she splutters. His tongue goes automatically to his canines as his grin starts to make his face hurt at her poor choice of words. “Ugh,” she mutters, “You know what I mean.” It  _ was  _ the definition he’d been thinking. 

 

“Tell you what, you focus on my  _ pretty _ face and I’ll do the CYA bit.” They do have an audience but the opportunity is too good to pass up, especially when Maka’s face goes straight to maroon. 

 

“Ohmigawd, you two, knock it off. I’m going to get cavities, you’re so gross,” says Liz, from where she’s focused on Soul’s arm. 

 

There’s a beep from Maka’s khaki belt followed by the crackle of her radio and the disembodied voice of her Chief, Toshiro Mifune. “DCA, are you there?” 

 

Now with an excuse, Maka rips the radio off her belt. “Go ahead, Chief.” 

 

“I finished up that scenario for tonight’s drill. Have a minute?” he asks. 

 

Soul watches her turn to Liz. “Do you mind if I use the phone in your office?” 

 

The blonde doctor doesn’t look up from her work. “Nope, not at all,” she responds.

 

Given the recent conversation, Soul caves into temptation and tracks her tight ass all the way across the tilting deck. When the door shuts, his head snaps back, only to be ambushed by Liz’s blue eyed judgement.

 

“Taking that offer very seriously, aren’t you?” she says, laughing as she peels open an over-sized bandage, sealing it over the fresh stitches. 

 

“I take everything seriously,” says Soul stoically. 

 

Liz laughs at him outright. “I’m sure you do. By the way, you never did answer my question.” He gets whiplash from her laughing to straight for the jugular tone. 

 

Soul carefully rolls down the sleeve while Liz cleans up, pitching the scraps into the bin. He does have that burning question about the necklace. “Tell you what-- one for one. I’ll answer yours if you tell me who gave Maka that jade necklace.” Curiosity has been burning him all weekend.

 

“Necklace?” The bottle of anesthetic fumbles out of her hands, and Liz watches it hit the deck with a wince. “ _ Oh!  _ That… what?” she says with a squeak, bending to retrieve the rolling vial. “Can, you, give me a minute-- excuse me, Soul, I need to get this to the drug locker.” She’s gone before he can say anything else. 

 

That was weird, he thinks. He wasn’t trying to be invasive, he was trying to make conversation, build camaraderie. Granted, it must be something of great meaning if Maka values it enough to wear while in uniform. Sure, his vested interest might be crossing the fine line to mild obsession. But what else is he supposed to have concentrated on after that _ kiss? _

 

Ripping himself away from the hottest kiss of his life had sapped him of his ability to process much the following days. He’d only just made it to his stateroom after the Chief had left, thrown himself into his coffin sized rack, and there he’d lain. 

 

The fresh ghost of ash blonde hair tingling on his fingertips. Trying not to imagine white cotton sliding up supple legs, and failing miserably. Then being envious of a chunk of cold green stone, unable to purge the sight of it resting against that beautiful breastbone.  

 

It had been the longest night of his life. 

 

//

 

Maka’s face still feels hot, even after going over the details of the drill tonight with Mifune. She’s just hung up the phone when Liz bursts into her office, slamming a vile onto her desk and sliding into her chair. “What the hell happened, and when?”

 

Maka shakes her head, affronted by Liz’s question. She doesn’t get the chance to respond.

 

“I asked you how things were with Soul this morning, and you said nothing--  _ Nothing! _ ” Liz looks hurt. 

 

Maka is a flurry of emotions. “Did he say something?” she asks, eyeing the door cautiously.

 

“No.” Liz hurls at her. “But he did ask me about a  _ necklace _ .” Maka feels the color draining from her face. “I know you don’t kiss and tell but, shit, Maka, if you don’t want me prying, just tell me to butt out. I know how to mind my own business.”

 

That stings. It isn’t as if she doesn’t want to confide in her friend, she’s just-- She’d wanted Soul to kiss her so she’d stop wondering what it would be like. Thought maybe if she got it over with, that it’d be the end of it. She’d stop  _ wanting  _ it-- boy had she erred in judgement. 

 

“I didn’t-- he--”  _ Oh boy, _ Maka thinks, slumping into the chair next to Liz’s desk, trying to bury her shame in her arms because Liz is giving her that compassionate look which drives the knife of guilt deeper into her gut. “It was just a kiss,” Maka whispers to the surface of the desk.

 

Liz gives a low whistle. “ _ Just _ a kiss. Sure, I mean he sees a necklace that, to my knowledge, only three people know about. But sure, it was just a kiss. Babe, I’ve got an island in the Caribbean I’d like to sell you,” Liz says, punctuating her disbelief.

 

“You’re funny,” Maka grumbles. 

 

“Damn right. So tell me what really happened or tell me to butt, the fuck, out, because I’m about to strangle you!”

 

Maka groans, the trepidation thick. Maybe she shouldn’t, but it’s too late. “I told you about the running mate thing,” she begins.

 

“Yep, the showers-- Friday night,” Liz recites, rarely forgetting details.

 

“Yeah, I-- oh god. Let me back-up,” Maka says. “After you left the club on Thursday, he called me out, said he’d request a new running mate.” Maka looks up at Liz. She feels contrite because her friend had been right all along. “You said I was being unfair-- aaand, he called me out on it at the club.”

 

Liz’s features round out into a compassionate, ‘oh’. 

 

“Look, when I mess up-- I own it.” It’s defensive, and yet Liz never gives her the ‘I told you so’ Mama would have. “Star was in the office when he came by, but I  _ did  _ apologize.” Maka feels more and more ashamed.

 

“What was Benji doing there?” Liz asks, but then says, “Calling you out on your shit?” She guesses accurately. Maka’s teeth grit together, her jaw tight as she nods, and Liz says, “Okay. Go on.”

 

“Anyway, long story short, he came into my room after I got back from the showers to give me his answer early.”

 

By this point, Liz looks more like a therapist as she nods, listening intently until her hands smack on the desk. “After I left the shower room-- After  _ you  _ left the shower--” A manicured talon hurls judgement at her “-- wearing the silk kimono Tsubaki gave you!” 

 

“ _ Jeeezus _ ,” Maka curses. “Keep your voice down!  _ Yes! _ ” she hisses. “Yes, fuck. I should’ve never brought it on board.” Her face is back in her arms as she laments to the desk, basking in its solid support.

 

“Are you kidding me? That’s the first wise decision you’ve made. I’m sending Tsubaki flowers.” Liz’s hands are up in the air--  _ praise, hallelujah  _ mode.  “So?”

 

Maka risks a glance from her protective arms to see Liz poised like a vulture. “Sooo?” she questions apprehensively.

 

“The kiss, you dingbat. How was it? One to ten scale, with a healthy handicap since-- god, when was the last time you kissed someone?” 

 

Blood is rushing in her ears, but Maka manages to cool it for a minute. It’s best to just answer Liz honestly or she’s going to dig until she draws blood. Maka returns to the desk surface’s loving embrace and barely audible, whispers, “Twenty.”

 

“Twenty?!” Liz screeches. “Jeez-- what the hell are you doing in here? Go--ohmigod-- don’t let go of that-- fool!”

 

“Will you please,  _ shut the front door, _ ” Maka hisses, like the angry kettle she feels she is. But there’s no fire in it as her face turns to the side as she traces the conduit lines up the wall with her eyes and then moves onto the various pipes, finding solace in the simplicity of the engineering. The steady rocking of the ship soothes her frayed nerves and calms her. But it doesn’t help, her breath, the anxiety she feels comes out in a long, depressed woosh. 

 

“Maka, you are not your parents,” Liz reminds her for the millionth time. 

 

“You’re right.” The force with which Maka pulls herself upright gives her a strong sensation of vertigo, but she pushes through. “I’m not going to make the same mistakes they did.”

 

“That’s not where I was going with that.” Her friend watches her warily. “You could give him a chance, ya know.” 

 

“I could,” Maka hedges. “But-- I won't.”

 

//

 

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Eater, can I help you with something?” a soft, timid voice asks.

 

Soul clamps down on his flight reflex, pulling away from the door like the eavesdropping sack of shit he is only to find a mildly bewildered young hospital corpsman looking at him expectantly. She can’t be more than nineteen, he thinks. “Ah-- no,” he says, giving her a wide smile. “I was looking for the Doc. I think she’s with someone-- I’ll come back later.” He ends the word vomit by exiting the medical ward, leaving the questioning girl behind. 

 

He concentrates as he makes his way back to Maka’s office, trying to accommodate for the pitch and roll of the ship. It isn’t as if he was planning on listening in, but Liz had shrieked  _ twenty _ loud enough to wake the dead, and possibly even raise Atlantis. He’d gotten up to investigate and incidentally heard more than he should have. 

 

In his gut, he knows Liz knows about the necklace or she wouldn’t have reacted the way she had. Does Starinsky know about it too-- could he be the person who gave it to Maka? Soul isn’t entirely certain. There’s a bond between them, sure, but Starinsky had also denied being involved with her when he’d brought the fake corpse into the NSF.

 

Soul’s on the ladder now, wondering about the bit about her parents. What’d happened to make her so adamant to not give him a chance, especially given her recent change in behavior? 

 

Even if something catastrophic happened with her parents, marriage, she wouldn’t allow that to stop her from following her own desires… would she? His boots hit the landing at the bottom-- as if he has room to talk given his own family situation. Does it matter to him? 

 

It isn’t what he’s come on board looking for. The note in his head has adopted a syncopation that is stressing his anxiety. Right. Before meeting Maka, it’d been a non-issue, but now-- now he’s not so sure he wants to close the door on the potential of something as amazing as what he’d experienced with her. 

 

He shakes his head, hand on the door latch-- he has a mission. A responsibility to complete. Her vehement rejection of Liz’s idea to give him a chance echoes in that dark room. It isn’t the first time he’s been rejected-- so why does it feel like life or death?

  
  


“Steaming course one-eight-zero for the rest of the night, speed-- fifteen knots. Winds at zero-two-zero. No contacts visible on the horizon. Steering drills to be conducted during the watch at my discretion.” Maka delivers this speech to the off-going Officer of the deck and salutes. “Lieutenant Law, I have the Deck.”

 

The man returns her salute and announces the changing of the watch to the bridge in general. “Attention on deck. This is Lieutenant Law-- Lieutenant Albarn has the Deck.”

 

Maka completes the turnover as Justin heads to the chart table to sign the ship’s log. “This is Lieutenant Albarn, I have the Deck.” Her voice rings confident, loud and clear. 

 

The ship navigator passes the ship’s log to Benjamin for his signature and glances over. “Quartermaster, aye.”

 

“Boatswain’s mate, aye.”

 

Akane Hoshi looks up from the ships, wheel. “Helmsman, aye. Steering one-eight-zero.”

 

“Very well,” Maka acknowledges, motioning Soul over from the back of the bridge. Her heart flutters as she takes the worn strap of the binoculars, slinging them around her neck. A contented sigh accompanies the familiar weight that drops to her chest. 

 

“You okay?” Soul asks as he approaches her, indicating the binoculars.

 

Maka’s eyes follow his hands trajectory to her chest and for a minute she wonders if he’s alluding to something else, but her hands are still gripped on the leather. “This? Oh, yeah. I’m in heaven,” she admits. 

 

It’s funny how his face screws up into this mess of confusion, and it makes her want to giggle. In response, she grabs the spare pair off the chart table and holds them out to him. The way he stares at them makes her laugh outright. One might think she’d just handed him a bad report card. “They don’t bite, Eater,” she says. “Look, head out on the starboard bridge wing-- that way.” She points him in the direction of the watertight door open off to their right. “Go, I’ll meet you in a few minutes.” 

 

Soul finally takes them. She’s not sure if she’s upset or relieved that he didn’t take the opportunity to brush her hand with his, but he does loop them around his neck as he exits the bridge.

 

Maka shakes the thought from her head as she turns back to the bridge to verify  _ The Death City’s  _ course and speed. The radar is clear, but she double checks it before she exits out to the port bridge wing. She lifts her binoculars to study the horizon. On a clear day, you can see up to twenty miles of crystalline, blue waters in every direction. Today is clear, the weather warm and balmy. 

 

She pulls her cover off, tucking the bill into the waistband at the small of her back. Inhaling deep, she draws the salty ocean air into her lungs, holding it there like greeting an old friend. This is it.  _ This _ is what being a sailor is all about. Sun in your face. Sea in your lungs. The crashing of the waves in your ears. The only land to be found is two hundred miles astern and more than a thousand ahead. 

When she stands still, she can feel the deck rolling under her and she is fully present in this moment. Nothing exists in a future or the past, it just is, here and now. This is the only thing that makes her believe in a higher power. And she's secure in the knowledge that _ they’re _ a sailor. 

 

Maka draws another deep breath of the briny mist, holding it close, before letting it go with a sigh. In her heaven, there is no rank. This paradise is here for anyone-- from captain, lieutenant, chief, down to the most junior seaman-- even civilians. But is it something Soul will understand?

 

Will he be able to see past the electronics, the computers, and the weapons to feel the call? Is it something he could potentially embrace? Because in her mind,  _ that’s  _ what it’ll take to portray a convincing sailor on the screen. 

It’s in this moment that she has a burning need to find out. Maka dons her cover. Reentering the bridge quickly, she looks out through the central windows that span the entire eighty foot width at the incoming twilight and checks the radar again before exiting starboard to join Soul.

 

He’s leaning on the railing, staring out at the horizon, illuminated by the sunset with his back to her. 

“Hey,” she says softly, “How’s the arm?” Maka’s grateful that she’s gripping the binoculars when he turns, because he gives her a genuine smile. Not the thing she’s seen him parade to the rest of the ship, but one that reaches somehow deeper to the center of his being. It’s expressed through his eyes. Eyes that match the burning red of the sunset. Maka feels her face grow warm.

 

“It’s fine,” he says. 

 

The guilt tightens in her gut. “I’m really sorry,” she says, thinking of how she’s behaved, but her eyes have fallen on the bandage that covers his stitches.

 

“Nah, don’t be,” he reassures her. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

 

Maka smiles, shaking her head, a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t referring to that-- but I did speak to Hiro about taking better care of you.” The discomfort of shame-- of knowing what she’s done is wrong is building, but this time she doesn’t shy away from it; she leans into it. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you-- I know I’m probably beating a dead horse and you’d rather I don’t bring it up. You didn’t--” And it’s  _ there  _ in the things she’s observed about him in the moments she’s been around him, she finds she wants to get to know him-- as a person “--you didn’t have to give me a second chance, but you are. I want you to know I’m doing it right this time.” Her face is most likely flaming by now, so Maka turns to the horizon, bringing it closer to her through the binoculars.

 

//

 

Soul watches Maka with growing wonder. Wishing he could level with her completely, wishing he could explain why he’s blown away by her change of heart-- she could be the difference he needs in this case. But-- he can’t outright just ask her,  _ Hey, now that we’re on speaking terms-- can you spot me the electronic pin to get into the NSF? _ No. It sucks, because if this thing blows sideways six shits to Sunday-- she’s going to think he’s been manipulating her all along. 

 

Goddamnit, he hates his fucking job sometimes. 

 

But right now? Right this minute-- it isn’t so bad-- even if it is on a damned ship. He watches Maka stare out at the horizon, the colors of the deepening sunset illuminating her like a golden siren, and the sight of her so at peace makes something tighten low in his gut.

 

He needs to not let the dumpster fire she’s ignited within him catch a breath of oxygen or he’s going to go up in flames. Heedless of his dilemma, Maka breathes deep, her lungs filling then falling, the vice like feeling sinks lower as she drops the binoculars to her chest, turning her face to the ocean breeze. 

 

It’s stupid to feel jealous of the ocean, to feel envious of the sea breeze that’s causing her to sigh like that. That smile-- like she’s come home to a long lost lover-- what would it feel like to be received like that every day? At home... in bed-- the record scratches in his head because it hits him hard how much she must genuinely love it. 

 

“Hollywood?” she asks quietly, bringing him crashing back to the here and now, connecting so intensely he becomes aware of how hard he’s gripping the railing. “Are you okay?”

 

Soul swallows hard, giving a firm nod, avoiding her eyes. 

 

“I’m going to make the rounds-- I need to talk to the Boatswain Mate. I’ll be back.” She doesn’t wait for an answer this time, so he watches her cross back into the bridge, and watches her check the radar once more, and watches until he loses sight of her exiting the other side, probably to scan the horizon. 

 

The breath he’s holding comes out in a nauseating sigh as he leans over the railing.  _ Why the ocean though? _ he wonders, staring down at it’s foreboding blue-black color, hating it.

 

The ocean-- he isn’t fooled by the beautiful mirage played out on its glittering surface. Soul knows all too well beneath that shine lies a barren empty leviathan-- one that claws its way into the hearts of men. In such a way that they never suspect, not until it’s too late. His senses return to the G, now flat, and it grates on his nerves. It’s already ensnared Maka, and that’s a thought that makes his blood run cold-- he watches the sun sink lower into the horizon, taking his foolish hope with it.

 

“Did you hear it?” she asks.

 

A shock bursts through him, but he manages to keep his body still aside from the goosebumps that manifest at the touch of her hand on the back of his arm. Soul turns to see Maka, and he forgets how to breathe as the last rays illuminate that ash blonde into spun gold. “Wh-uh?” 

 

“The sun-- did you hear it sizzle as it went into the water?” she insists, and the way her mouth pulls into a carefree smile, one filled with unbridled joy, drives a knife into his heart. 

 

He has to nip this, whatever the fuck  _ this _ is, in the bud and has to do it immediately. The wind picks up, tossing her bangs into her face, so he distracts himself by watching her fingers work the strands back into her braid, accepting the pain of not seeing that beautiful sight when Maka recovers her head with that damned red ball cap. “Is that why you joined the Navy?” he asks, knowing full well that if anything is going to kill his growing interest it’ll be the answer to that question. But a small part of him prays that the only thing her answer has in common with his insidious demon is the uniform. 

 

“You’re kidding. You of all people should know,” she says, and for a minute Soul panics, wondering if she’s read his mind. “Look around, Hollywood.  What do you see?”

 

“A fuck ton of water--” slips out, but she laughs heartily.

 

“Fair,” she acknowledges. “Okay, but seriously. Look up at the sky, in a few minutes it’ll be pitch black. So dark that the sky resemble a back-lit canvas with holes punched in it.”  _ Canopy _ , his mind corrects automatic, but he remains silent. “Do you know how much people pay for this view?” she asks.

 

He’s well aware but still doesn’t say anything. His wax wings are starting to melt-- “The Navy chose me” --the feathers ignite. He is a flaming star hurtling towards the surface of the ocean only to drown on scorched, broken wings. “Can you  _ understand  _ that?” Her tone slices him open.

 

_ Understand?! _ Yeah, he understands. He has twenty-nine years of frustration and abandonment clamoring for restitution and here she is, another priestess pledging herself at the altar of a selfish deity. He understands-- his father made sure of it. 

 

His jaw tightens, grinding the enamel, but he turns so she can’t see him glaring his hatred at the ocean-- that blue blanket with diamonds strewn across it. The Navy had provided Dad with all the grandeur and more. But the ferryman had a toll-- and the price to be paid? His name, funny enough. 

 

Like the labyrinth, it had lured Dad in slowly, ever so slowly, a promotion here, a ship there. Had dad ever figured it out? Had he ever searched for Ariadne’s String? Or had the leviathan erased all memory of a life on shore? ‘Cause that bastard hadn’t remembered his home, hadn’t remembered his wife or the kids he left behind. 

 

Soul forces himself to look at Maka-- if only to promise himself he will resolve this case and do it as quickly as humanly possible because there’s no chance in hell he’s going to get caught up in that loop. He’s not going to star in a remake of that fucking nightmare. 

 

The conversation from the office floats in the black room of his soul and in this moment he holds onto Maka’s own words--  _ I won’t _ \-- drawing courage from them. 

  
  


Soul is in over his head. 

 

“DCA! Number two fire pump is off line-- fire-main is ninety-five psi and falling!!” 

 

He doesn’t know who is shouting. Currently he’s standing meekly in the back, observing the ten-odd sailors who are separating him from Maka as he tries to gauge her reaction against the stress in the guys voice. Momentarily has a view of the back of her steel hard-hat marked DCA before some other sailor clamps a hand to their sound-powered headphones and barks out another update.

 

“Repair Three reports fire in Lieutenant Nygus’s stateroom has spread to the adjacent space.” 

 

Followed by another voice joining the fray, leaving Soul to try and parse any meaning from this. “Electrical power has been secured in the machine shop. Repair Five fire teams are preparing to access the space.” 

 

Soul watches silently as Maka steps back from the huge ship-wide schematics attached to the far wall of the Damage Control Central. Staring at the charts, she fires off a round of acknowledgements. “Very well, D’Eclair, have engineering bring number three fire pump online. Advise me when fire-main is up and rising. Ford, tell repair five not to crack the seal on that water tight door until fire-main is above 125 psi. Giriko, get Hiro down to pump room two and  _ fix that pump! _ ”

 

The three Petty Officers respond in unison ready to carry out her orders, “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

 

“DCA,” shouts Giriko, “Captain’s on line two!”

 

Maka nods, holding out her hand. “Thanks, Giriko. Ford-- inform repair two that I’m shifting my assets, I want their primary hose team sent to repair Three.”  There’s a strange game of pass the phone until the receiver reaches her. “DCA here, Captain-- I need the Officer of the Deck to alter course. Topside scouts report our present one is trapping smoke inside the ship.” 

 

Soul watches her brow furrow as she listens. At that time D’Eclair shouts, “DCA, number three fire pump is online-- fire-main is at 132 psi.” Maka throws a thumbs up over her shoulder, and as she does she catches Soul’s eye, waving him over. Into the phone, she shouts, “Aye, aye, Captain! DCA out.” 

 

The receiver is handed back as he threads his way to her. He’s a little curious how he might be of service but Captain Buttataki was right, Maka is one of the best officers he’s seen in command. The Captain had shared his reasoning for assigning him to her, at lunch his first day-- and he’s glad to know the man wasn’t kidding. 

 

Maka gives him a brilliant smile from under her battle helmet. “Having fun yet?” she asks.

 

“Fun?” he scoffs. “Your definition differs from mine,” he shouts.

 

The fact her laugh can make his insides shudder in such a situation isn’t lost upon him. “Alright, listen up then, ‘cause I’ve got about ten seconds to enlighten you before the next crisis hits,” she says, joy palpable even through the stress.

 

And the coiling in his gut twists because she’s actually taking the time--  _ her time _ \-- out of this madness to explain it to him. Three days out to sea and she’s not gone back on her word-- she’s trusting him. A wide grin splits his face, but thankfully her back is to him as she points to the laminated charts.

 

“Okay, so these plates depict every inch of  _ Death City _ to scale. And as you know, the ship is divided into three sections from the weather decks down to the keel. Repair Two is responsible for the Bow, Repair Three-- amidships, and Repair Five the aft end,” Maka says. 

 

She indicates black grease she’s added to the diagram, it extends out from the midsection of the plate marked  _ USS Death City _ ,  _ AD-42:  _ Deck 01. Maka explains that they’re called damage control symbols, and that they help her to track the various fires and the flooding as it occurs throughout the ship-- real or drill. She’s mapped where the missile entered the port side of the ship. 

 

Maka had also traced a box around several compartments. “Those are the four outer staterooms we lost in the initial explosion. This part of the diagram tracks the actual damage control progress,” she further explains.

 

She points out the various symbols, one by one. Fire and smoke boundaries. Where electrical power has been secured. The areas the hose teams have entered the space and have the fire under control. “However--” Her finger is tapping on the adjacent square. “--due to the extreme heat, we sparked another fire in this stateroom.” 

 

“DCA, Repair Five hose team has accessed the watertight door and entered the machine shop,” shouts Ford. 

 

“Copy, Ford.” Maka makes the appropriate marks on the correct chart before turning back to Soul. “The second missile impacted here, in the machine shop. Fire and smoke boundaries were set, electrical was secured, and-- as you just heard-- the hose team has accessed the space to begin battling the blaze. But do you see here,” she points to the chart again, “due to the extent of the damage reports-- I’ve concluded that the second warhead did not explode.”

 

Soul wants to scrub a hand through his sweat damp hair but settles for whistling low. “Not bad for two hours’ work,” he says. 

 

Maka barks out a small, surprised laugh. “Oh, no, no. In reality this would take a whole lot longer-- all day, in fact. But why put everyone through it for that long if we don’t have to?” 

 

He can’t argue with that. The sooner the HVAC kicks back on the better for all. He’s caught the way she’s wiped at perspiration from beneath her helmet a time or two, but he has yet to hear her complain. Not once in the past three days has she bitched about the sleep she isn’t getting, or the meals she hasn’t eaten, and free time? That’s a concept she doesn’t understand. Soul’s sure she survives on coffee alone and that cannot be healthy. 

 

“Excuse me, DCA?” A guy who looks like he’s had his nose broken on multiple occasions interrupts them. It’s Petty Officer Giriko; he’s been manning the phones and repeating each stage of the drill’s progression over the public address system all night. 

 

“What is it, Giriko?”

 

Soul doesn’t miss the pointed glance Giriko throws his way nor the almost imperceptible nod Maka gives before she says, “Go ahead.”

 

“It’s Repair Two, DCA-- they still haven’t sent that fire team you requested to Repair Three,” he says. 

 

He’s looking at her, so Soul doesn’t miss the streak of Greek Fire blaze up in Maka’s eyes before she slams the lid on it with a forced smile that doesn’t fool anyone. “Petty Officer Giriko, do me a personal favor and contact the Repair Two Locker Officer over the phone. Tell him if he doesn’t cough up that hose team-- I’ll be paying him a visit to pull it out of his ass  _ personally.” _

 

Giriko grins. “I take it I can quote you on that, ma’am?” 

 

Maka nods, and Soul feels a thrill go through him. “Let me guess, Lieutenant Bale is the Repair Two Locker Officer.” 

 

That thrill returns in full force as her face breaks into the most genuine smile he’s seen yet. “Hollywood, you must be a goddamned psychic,” she says jokingly. 

 

He isn’t, but wouldn’t mind being one. Soul doesn’t miss how she rolls her shoulders, noting the tension there as she turns her back to the charts. 

 

“DCA, Repair Five reports the fire in the machine shop is under control,” says D’Eclair.

 

“Very well, Harvar. Ford, ask Lieutenant Law if he needs any more firefighters beyond what he’s been sent. Giriko, have Ensign Free send fifteen extra sailors from the pool on the mess decks to Repair Three to suit up, just in case.” 

 

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” they shout. 

 

Soul watches her left hand kneed her right shoulder and he has to clamp his hands together, because the least he could be doing is rubbing the tension out himself. 

 

Harvar shouts, “DCA, Repair Five reports the fire in the machine shop is out!”

 

Maka’s shoulders heave with an inaudible sigh as her eyes close for a moment. “Okay-- one down, two to go!”

 

“De-smoking and overhaul of the fire is in progress in the machine shop,” Harvar says, updating central, and Maka steps to her charts to add the appropriate symbols. 

 

“DCA. Repair Three reports the fires in Lieutenant Nygus’s stateroom and the adjacent space are now out!” shouts Ford. 

 

Soul watches Maka’s face break out into an honest to god smile. “Petty officer Giriko, pass the word over the PA to the crew-- all fires throughout the ship are now out.” Afterwards she addresses the sailors clustered around her. “Relax battle dress in Damage Control Central.” This is met with a collective sigh as everyone yanks off steel hardhats and face masks to roll sleeves as high as they’ll go. And Soul hopes the rumble he felt is the sound of the HVAC kicking on as Giriko breaks the seal on the watertight door to the space. 

 

He watches the stress release its grip on her shoulders as she stretches, removing her hard hat-- why does her hair have this effect on him? Soul tracks her fingers as they tuck in stray strands back into the tight braid. Soul watches her hand reach for the red cover that’s going to obscure the only thing of beauty in the room. He’s resigned to the inevitability-- he’d made his decision the other day.

 

“Lord-- I could use a cup of coffee,” Maka says. “C’mon, Hollywood, it’s the least I can offer while we wait for debrief.” 

  
Coffee, after all that’s happened, sounds like the nectar of the gods. “Lead the way, DCA.”

 

Maka feels every ache in her body from the way her heels just hurt to the area between her shoulder blades she can never manage to relax as she sinks into her office chair. She is her mama’s child and holds her stress in her rigid posture. The boots hit the top of her desk, shuddering through her sore legs, and if she keeps them up there like this for a while her knees are going to scream in protest, but it helps for now. 

 

“Here.” The low rumble of Soul’s voice is felt all the way to her spine but Maka forces herself to remain still. He’d wisely used one of the Yeti mugs with a lid, even so he’s balancing the cup against the swells hitting the ship.

 

“You’re a saint, Hollywood,” she says.

 

“Riiiight, I don’t think Hollywood has a good track record for saints-- sinners, maybe,” he says skeptically, giving her that disarming side grin that makes her feel like maybe  _ she _ should be the one going to church. She hates how he electrifies everything within her. It’s like her emotions have been plugged into an amplifier of sorts. 

 

It’s an illusion, has to be-- he’s paid to manipulate people into feeling things for him. But the way he says, “I bet you say that to all the guys who feed your caffeine addiction,” gives her the impression that maybe he wants her validation, but why would he ever need that? And is he flirting?

 

“Ah,” she can’t keep a serious face, “okay, you’re not wrong on the Hollywood thing-- sinner-- “ He really needs to stop smiling at her like that, she thinks, as he ultimately reaches her desk. She happily wraps her hands around the warm metal of the mug while she breathes in the smell of consciousness, almost moaning in delight as she finally accepts the coffee. Maka settles for burning her tongue on the hot liquid to distract herself from that grin she hasn’t been able to ignore. “And, no I don’t--”

 

Just then, the watertight door of her office opens much to Maka’s annoyance. Of  _ course _ this would be the icing on the cake, she only barely manages to suppress her groan. 

 

“My my my, aren’t we the picture perfect definition of domestic bliss here?” Noah practically sneers taking in the scene. “Don’t tell me she already has you rubbing her feet, Eater.”

 

Maka’s ready to tell him where he can stuff himself when Soul says, “Fuck off, Bale.” She turns to see what sort of effect this has on the asshole in question, but seriously? Hadn’t they been friendly? Not that she’s seen them hanging out since… the day outside of NSF? It is a big ship-- she’s getting off track here, because she doesn’t need Soul, or anyone for that matter, defending her from filth like Noah.

 

Instead, Maka checks her watch studiously and refuses to get up out of spite as the tall, dark haired man strolls in, closing the door behind him. “Is my watch broken?” she asks, mildly surprised. “Isn’t it still too early for you to be crawling out of your coffin, Noah?” And for whatever reason he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he smiles, meandering around Soul to pop an ass cheek onto her desk mere inches from her boot heels. 

 

His eyes go to her tablet. “Really, Maka? Anyway, I’m curious-- got an extra report  _ chit _ hanging out in your inbox?” he asks.

 

Maka’s eyes narrow instinctively at the veiled threat. “If you’ve got a point in there somewhere-- make it.” 

 

He doesn’t. Instead Bale studiously flips the cover to the latest revision of the Nuclear, Biological, Chemical Warfare Doctrine and pretends to study it-- the man doesn’t read anything if he can help it. Scratch that, Maka thinks, he would if it’s about himself. 

 

Maka kicks her feet off the desk and uses her Yeti to slam the cover of the doctrine shut, engaging Noah, because if there’s one thing she hates it’s his stupid stall tactics. “Spit out whatever it is you came here to say, Noah. It’s been a long day and I’d like to finish my coffee in peace. You’ve got two seconds.” That’s how long it’ll take her to drop him, although filling out the incident report won’t be much fun.

 

It’s enough to goad him into action because he gets off her desk to loom over her. “Where the fuck do you get off ordering an enlisted guy to dress me down in the middle of a drill?” 

 

The guy has lit the fuse to her already short wire and Maka shoots up on pure fury and still only reaches his chin, but the caffeine and sleep deprivation more than make up for it. “Here’s where-- If I  _ ever _ have to send down multiple requests for backup to your locker again, you’ll regret it!”

 

Bale shifts a step away, glaring down at her. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Maka. You weren’t desperate. You sent for help from the mess decks’ pool.”

 

She senses the electrical amplification of Soul moving rather than sees it, but she throws a hand behind her to stop him from getting any ideas. “You entitled piece of shit. The safety of this ship should  _ never  _ depend on a group of inexperienced sailors who’ve never worked together before when I have an expert hose team at my disposal.” Maka stabs a finger into his chest. “So while we’re on the subject,  _ Noah. _ Let’s get one thing into that radiation addled brain of yours-- this ship doesn’t  _ play _ at damage control and neither do I. If today’s scenario had been real-- that crap you pulled today would have cost lives. Don’t take it from me-- next time we’re in port how about you ask the crew of the  _ USS Bladagger  _ or the  _ Enterprise _ . Or maybe--” she’s seeing red now “--you should just ask Petty Officer Gorgon. Am I clear?”

 

His nod is more of a tightening of the jaw but she takes it, if it means getting rid of him. “Good. Because the next time I’m forced to have this discussion, I’ll haul your ass up to the Captain’s cabin and beat it into your skull right then and there. Now,  _ get out of my office. _ ” She manages to say it in a calm voice that only highlights her rage. 

 

Bitter resentment is what stares out at her through Noah’s eyes before he spins on his heel and stalks out. 

 

She may have managed to lower her voice but the blood is still roaring in her ears and the room still looks tinged in unholy red. So when the hand comes down on her shoulder, she nearly jumps out of her skin trying to place where it’s come from.

 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry-- are you okay?” His voice winds her.  _ Soul? _

 

Jeezus _ fuck _ , Maka nearly curses. Of all the people to forget herself in front of-- there goes her professionalism. How many cuss words had she hurled at Noah? Lord, she draws in a breath, wanting to run for her life. “I’m--  _ fine _ .” 

 

But of course, he isn’t convinced. 

 

Lie better, she tells herself, with a fake smile plastered to her face, she can’t think of anything to say. Would love to say Noah’s off his meds again, but that isn’t fair to anyone who needs medication for mental illnesses. So she keeps her mouth shut, trying to ignore the tug at the back of her throat. And why, why does he have to look at her as if he can see right through her, to the place in her soul where she isn’t smiling? The place where she’s shaking and scared to death.

 

His face is set and his hands fisted where he’s crossed his arms, staring at her, waiting for some type of explanation, when he asks, “What’s really going on between you two?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: I want to say thank you to those of you who have left reviews (I seriously try to respond to all of them ;) ) and to those of you who leave likes. Again, I can't stress this enough how much my betas are integral to this whole process. I love them all and they all challenge me to be a better writer. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Title: 6**

**Words: 5759**

**Warnings: drugs, violence, language, blood**

**Notes:**

  
  


Soul sits there, trying not to stare at Maka and failing. The fact that he’s picked up on her tells shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. Her green eyes are focused on the far side of her office, her hands are gripping the Yeti tightly, but-- and there it is-- the pulsing of her jaw. The dead giveaway. 

 

She hasn’t said anything and really she doesn’t have to. It doesn’t take a monkey with three bananas to explain the situation between her and Noah is personal. How personal, exactly? Soul isn’t sure he wants to know, only because the black room’s door has been blown open wide and the idea of an answer threatens to suck him into the void. 

 

It isn’t any of his business-- Maka’s life. The things she’s done or hasn't done-- he knows he has no right to any of it. Only, if there is  _ that _ sort of history between her and Noah, it could impede his investigation. It’s better that he rips off the band-aid-- it’s not like he’s ever cared before now sooo-- “How long did you two date?” he quietly asks the growing silence. 

 

Maka spit chokes on her coffee. It’s a miracle Soul doesn’t laugh at the way she sprays half her desk. The record scratch only goes off in his brain. “Uh--” he says, searching around for some shop towels before he remembers his temporary desk had some in a drawer. Okay, so maybe they hadn’t dated and he hates how hopeful his gut feels. “My mistake,” he says, handing her a few paper towels as he picks up the Yeti.  

 

For her part, Maka is mopping up her desk, but she does level him with a curious green stare. 

 

“Don’t be, you weren’t far off,” she says darkly. 

 

His heart slows in his chest—well, shit, maybe it wasn’t a mistake—and it isn’t until she starts talking that he realizes he’s holding his breath. 

 

“Ah, it’s not exactly like that,” she says, to the wad of coffee stained paper towels. “We never dated, but not for lack of him trying.” 

 

What exactly does she mean by that? he wonders. “Sooo, what happened?” he asks, thinking she’s going to elaborate as the silence stretches thinner and thinner until he gently prods, “Maka?”

 

She seems to come out of wherever it is her head went. “Don’t push it, Hollywood,” she says. “I get that we’re starting to get along better and all, but I don’t need you rushing in to save me. I don’t need to bare my soul to some stranger--” 

 

Soul recoils. He’s legitimately concerned, but she’s right. It’s a hard pill to swallow, though he manages. And really, that’s what he gets for prying. Well shit--

 

There’s a sudden burst of what he can only describe as self-deprecating laughter-- he should know-- and it makes him feel tense.  Maka slumps in her chair, scrubbing a hand on her forehead. “I’m  _ really  _ good at doing that,” she says, staring overhead. “Wow, you didn’t deserve that.” 

 

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s curious where her mind is at.  

 

“I’m sorry. Look,” she says, drawing in a wary, bone-deep sigh. “Don’t take this the wrong way-- it’s just-- you wouldn’t understand.” 

 

_ Try me _ , he thinks, and that G plinking away in his mind makes its presence known. “Because I’m a guy?” he hedges.  

 

Maka only shakes her head. And his mind starts spinning in all directions. Okay, so maybe there hadn’t been any attraction on her end-- a dark thought pops into his mind, had that shit bag tried something?! He forces himself to breathe in logic, but then a different scenario almost chokes the air from his lungs.

 

“Because I’m not Navy,” he says.

 

The way Maka’s eyes lock in on his like a homing missile means he’s hit close-- too close. 

 

“Funny,” she says, and his blood feels cold because nothing in the way she wraps her mouth around those two syllables suggest humor. “Sometimes I get the feeling you  _ are  _ Navy.”

 

Every receptor in his brain is screaming on alert as he tries to keep his shock from emanating from his face, and he manages-- except for his eyebrows.  _ Holy shit! _

 

“Call me crazy, but sometimes you have it all down, just a little too well, ya know?” she says.

 

Soul is gripping the Yeti mug rather tightly but he has to get her off this train. He grins but it’s miles away from showing through his eyes. “And here I thought you’d never notice-- I’ve been working pretty hard on my characterization.”

 

She isn’t fazed; her head shakes and those green eyes bore into his. “No. It’s more than that. Like, here--  your cover for instance.” He can only watch her fingers drawing nearer, unsure of what she’s going to do until the soft pads of her fingers touch where the blue cap meets his temples, and his skin goes hot. “Most guys wear them cocked back like they’re out playing softball. I spend years trying to retrain them, but the second you don yours-- it’s  _ there _ .” The absence of her hands leaves a void in its wake.

 

He laughs. She doesn’t. 

 

The feathers are melting and falling back to Earth. “The way you say bulkhead, overhead, and deck--” Her green eyes observe him quietly, and it makes him feel so transparent. “It’s as if you’ve been drilled on it.” 

 

‘Cause he had been, not that he’s going to admit to it. “That’s what they’re called, yeah?” he asks, tone edging on defensive. 

 

She nods and then her long lashes flutter, blinking. “That’s right-- you said you spent time on a luxury yacht crew. Most civilians will say--”   
  


“Walls, ceiling, and floors,” he supplies, cutting her off, relieved that she’s come up with her own solution because she doesn’t have a clue how on the money she is. His team would benefit from someone as astute as her, only, he can’t say that. Soul forces himself to slump down into his desk. He’s so dog tired, it doesn’t take much effort. But, he does fight the urge to rip off his cover. “Anyway-- there’s a lot of shit you don’t know about me,” he says offhandedly, quoting his favorite snarky comedian. 

 

“You rarely drive steamboats?” she asks with a small quirk of her lips.

 

Soul stares-- making another note. “Anyway… I thought we were discussing Bale?” And he has to count in sevens to steady his heart as her eyes flutter because he’s put her back on the defensive. 

 

“What would you understand, Eater? You’re an actor-- people hang on your every word. People throw themselves at you, because of your work. Have you ever been condemned for simply doing what you do?” she asks. 

 

The heat of the sun is scorching him-- he’s too close. He needs to change the subject, only a small selfish part of him doesn’t want to. A small selfish part doesn’t want to lie anymore. And maybe he can’t come right out and say it, but he knows what she’s driving at now. Hell, he lives it.

 

“Did you ever stop to think I might actually understand?” he asks, and he brings the mug to his mouth, drinking the now tepid liquid while she allows his words to sink in.  Except, is he’s doing this for her sake or his?

 

“Do you think my father really woke up one day and thought, ‘Gee, wouldn’t it be great if my son was an actor?’” It comes out of him like pus from a festering wound.

 

Maka sits back, affronted. “Your-- your father doesn’t approve of your career?” she asks cautiously.

 

“You could say that,” he says, gripping the mug tightly. If only it were that simple. “More like, he spent years of his life trying to turn me into something I didn’t want to be, or rather couldn’t become.” It hits him then that eighteen years is a long time to be angry at a person. To hold onto resentment, for what and for whose benefit? Certainly not his-- nor his brother’s or mom’s.

 

His eyes zero in on her hand when it slips into his, squeezing tightly. “I’m sorry,” she says.

 

He wants to laugh it off, to tell her not to be, but her eyes disarm him in ways he doesn’t comprehend. “Why?” The question comes out in a puff of breath.  _ Why should you be sorry, Maka? _ he wonders. 

 

“Because it hurts,” she says quietly, simply.

 

Four syllables that convey validation and empathy. His eyes are still on their inter-joined hands. He can’t risk seeing what’s in her soul, and the warmth of her hand only highlights how cold his feels. How much it’s shaking. How much his father’s rejection still hurts after all this time.

 

“Do you,” she hesitates, “want to talk about it?”

 

_ No. _ He shrugs. “Not much to talk about. Dear ol’ Dad wanted me to follow in the family footsteps just like my older brother.” Only what Maka doesn’t know is how being forced to play the perfect older brother almost left him without one. “I didn’t want anything to do with it.” 

 

“He couldn’t accept that,” she says plainly. The black room is filled with the sound of that sustained G; it’s like she’s attuned to it, can see through him to the center of his being. 

 

“How?” This time he wonders aloud.

 

“My hand,” she laughs, but it’s soft, hesitant. “You’re crushing it.” 

 

“Fuck-- sorry,” he blurts, trying to let go, only she doesn’t let him.   

 

“Don’t be, I just schooled Noah, remember? I can take it.” Her face loses the jest and becomes more serious. The illusion of time slows with her. “Can you?” 

 

In that moment, he forgets who he is and the one thing, the one extra thing he’d hoped for from all of this, the one small seed of truth slips out. “I think a part of me hoped this job would change his mind.” He freezes.

 

Maka doesn’t seem to notice. “Why would playing a sailor on TV bring him around?” she asks, innocently. 

 

There’s a rip threatening to drag him out to sea but he can’t move. Every punch line of every joke he’s ever heard may as well be sanskrit because he can’t recall anything. “Have you tried talking to him about it?” she asks, blissfully unaware of the tempest of emotions roiling within him.

 

_ Change the subject now!  _ His brain finally picks a path. “Have  _ you  _ tried talking to Bale?”

 

She’s close enough he hears her aspirate before she recovers. “Oh-kay.  _ I _ pushed,” she acknowledges. 

 

“Yeah, but--” Soul squeezes her hand and it kills him how right it feels enveloped in his. “--question still stands. Did you?”

 

“Yes,” she says, and her eyes go back to the wall. “Anyway, I can handle him.” 

 

The problem is, Soul thinks, if Bale’s running heroin-- even  _ he _ might have trouble handling him. “Maka, I get that it isn’t any of my business--” Only he can’t get the sight of that confrontation out of his mind. “--But, it looked like he wanted to-- to--”  _ kill  _ you. He can’t say it. 

 

“I think we can both agree that he isn’t a saint,” Maka laughs, but it’s flat. “He knows better. He’d never endanger me or the ship. At least not deliberately,” she says, but whether it’s to convince him or herself, Soul isn’t quite sure. 

 

“Meaning?” All of his senses are on alert.

 

Maka shakes her head. “Nothing, forget about it.” 

 

He can’t though. Not when it feels like he’s this close. His gut is doing that uncertainty dance-- but he still can’t tell her. It’s too soon. Both Bale and Starinsky have the necessary clearance to run the actual  _ Black Blood _ . And while his gut is screaming Bale, it’s still not enough to let Maka in on the loop because he doesn’t have the physical proof.

 

Which means, he’s up his own creek with his lone paddle, until he can find the evidence or clear Starinsky and the other sailors who work in NSF.  _ Damn _ .  

 

“So, you swiped left and he’s never gotten over it?” he says, squeezing her hand a little. There’s so much strength there.

 

“Ha!” It’s sarcastic, but then she erupts into giggles. “Buddy, you’ve got the wrong idea. He asked once, shortly after I came aboard. I’m no Helen of Troy,” she says, and it sounds a tad bitter to his ears.

 

Soul wants to tell her she’s wrong, but he has one last burning question. “Who is Petty Officer Gorgon?” he asks quietly, and he notes how her hand twitches in his. 

 

Her head is shaking and he can tell she’s scrambling because she’s never mentioned that name to him personally. “Ah, sorry-- you said it... to Bale...about costing lives…” He supplies his line of reasoning, watching her face go through a slew of different emotions. 

 

“Do you have a photographic memory?” she asks, her eyes searching his for some answer. “Wait-- no, echoic?” This time it’s him who blinks. “You remember sounds--words, or at least what I was yelling about.” 

 

Shit-- “I, ah, it comes in handy in my line of work,” he says, hoping it’s enough. “Limits how many times you have to ask for your lines-- directors hate that.” He likes the respect he sees in her eyes, likes it maybe a little too much. “But who are they? Bale went from frothing at the mouth to cornered dog at the mere mention.”

 

“That’s a pretty harsh assessment of your  _ bro _ , isn’t it?” Maka tries to laugh, but it’s a forced thing.

 

“Bro?” he questions. “No no no, we’re not-- I’m serious, Maka.” He squeezes her hand again.

 

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m surprised no one has blabbed it to you yet,” she sighs and her eyes find that spot on the wall again. “God, it was awful. Petty Officer Gorgon, Crona, is an electrician and a few weeks after I came aboard I walked in on them unconscious. The transformer they were working on arc flashed--” Maka shudders and Soul stiffens, knowing full well that it's a less haunting way to say it than,  _ they were electrocuted _ . “--Training kicked in and I started CPR immediately, keeping them with us until Liz could arrive. She’s the one that saved them.”

 

“Fuuuck,” Soul breathes. Maka has this far off look in her eyes and he hates that he’s made her relive something so traumatic.

 

“I-- I’m just glad I arrived when I did, you know?” she says, and the gravity of what could have happened hits Soul. And even in the little time he’s gotten to know her, he knows she’d have carried that guilt for the rest of her life. “Bale was there-- but, he… just, froze.”

 

“Fuuuck.” Well shit, that would explain a lot.

 

Maka squeezes his hand. “You’re repeating yourself.”

 

Everything in his head is working overtime. “Okay, but-- no wonder the guy has it out for you,” he says, and lets out a low whistle. To be caught like that with his pants around his ankles, it shouldn't be an excuse... and yet. “Still, though, his actions feel like overkill-- or am I missing something else here?” 

 

Her jaw is tensing in that odd rhythm of hers. “We weren’t the only ones on the scene, there had been an assistant. I don’t remember much honestly. I was so focused on counting chest compressions and saving their life while trying to get Noah to snap out of it to get help. The problem is by the time we got Crona to Medical, the other sailor had recovered from his shock and spread the story all over the ship.”

 

And there it is, Soul thinks. Bale’s fight or flight short circuited, leaving him in frozen panic. He was shamed for it, but with no one to place the blame on, and unwilling to take responsibility himself. He picked Maka as the lucky recipient to vent his frustration and humiliation. “So, instead of owning his negligence-- he goes after you?” Soul can barely contain his anger. 

 

“Why not?” There’s a wry twist to her mouth. “He’s a guy with entitlement and coping issues for sure, but up until last week he’s always kept it to mild harassment and a derogatory name every now and then. And aside from the one time he crossed a line-- he involved someone who worked for me-- I railed him so hard for that, he’s kept himself in check.”  

 

Soul’s mind trips over her words and for a split second envisions a different scenario-- but his blood is boiling. “Okay,” he takes a breath, “so what happened a week ago?” 

 

“Hell if I know, I don’t keep up with his personal life.” Soul sees her land on a thought just before she voices it with a scoff. “You know, he was pretty pissed he didn’t get assigned as your running mate-- he was really vocal about wanting the job.” A job Maka was clearly not keen to take, is left unspoken. 

 

_ He’d _ arrived last week-- but-- there’s no way Bale could be on to him. Was it suspicion or jealousy or the idea of getting passed over in favor of Maka that set Bale off? Damnit-- there are still too many unknowns. 

 

Maka brings him back to reality with a salty, “Satisfied, Hollywood?” Her green eyes are trained on his with a very hard glint that makes him uncomfortable in a number of ways. “Now that you’ve had your Twenty Questions,  _ flaming rumors  _ edition, it’s time to pay the price.” 

 

His pulse is rising but then Maka points accusingly at the Yeti mug gripped tightly in his other hand. “Coffee-- you took my mug and drank it!”

  
  


Maka is half hypnotized by her uneaten hamburger. The plate is playing a wicked game of see-saw on the table before her. She watches as it slides to the right only to stop and course correct sliding to the left, with such an interesting pendulum effect. Part of her is focused on the physics and part of her is remembering the times she used to play with an oil and water toy her papa had given her as a small child. Maka loved rocking the small ship from side to side on her turbulent ocean-- now she thinks she may have overdone it as a kid.

 

“Ohmigod, you should see sick bay, everything is rolling everywhere!” Maka looks up to see Liz doing the drunken sailor walk as the tall blonde concentrates intently on making it to the table where Maka is seated. “Whew, that was fun,” Liz exclaims, collapsing into the chair across from her and hanging onto the table like a shipwrecked sailor making landfall on a beach. “How long before we’re out of this?” she asks, a little breathless. 

 

The ketchup bottle has come within reach and Maka snags it, shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe a few hours. What’d you do with Hollywood?” she asks, while taking careful aim with the squeeze bottle.

 

“Lord, you’re not planning on eating--” Liz looks on horrified as Maka nails the burger on the next pass “-- that.”

 

Okay, yes the ship is rocking, but Maka doesn’t understand the fuss-- a girls gotta eat sometime. “As a matter of fact, I am,” she says, with dogged determination.

 

“Gross.” Liz looks away like she’s been personally victimized by Maka’s life’s choices. “Don’t worry about Hollywood. He’s stripped and tied spread eagle on my rack-- you should check in on him and make sure he’s secured for sea.”

 

Maka chokes on a half chewed bite and Liz looks placated. “You should see your face!” The doctor laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m trained in the Heimlich.” Maka flips her the bird. “Oh c’mon, you know you almost had it. If you just manage that blush no one will ever find out.” Those perfect eyebrows waggle at her pain. 

 

She’d like to think she isn’t that easy of a target but then Liz follows up with, “Speaking of stripping though, has our  _ seaman  _ gotten another look at that necklace of yours?” she asks conversationally. Maka’s face may as well be a safety flare. 

 

Maka sets down the burger, disgusted, as the plate swings by once more. “Doesn’t someone in sickbay need your undivided attention?” Maka glares at Liz, but the way they’re swaying takes all the heat out of it.

 

“Nope!” Liz pops her gum. “I finished removing Soul’s stitches,” she checks her watch, “twenty mins ago, and got the hell out of Detroit--”

 

“Dodge.” Maka corrects her automatically.

 

“Really?” Maka can read her expression so clearly,  _ where even is that?!  _ Liz’s face goes flat at Maka’s wicked grin. “So has he?” she asks, returning undeterred to her questioning. 

 

Okay, so truthfully Maka knows she only has to tell Liz to butt out, but she doesn’t because it’s best to just tell the truth. “No, he hasn’t.” 

 

Liz’s piercing blue eyes lock into whatever slipped out with that answer. “You want him to though?” 

 

It’s those dreams she’s been having that are the problem here. Maka avoids direct eye contact. She hooks her burger and chomps another bite angrily to save herself. She’s only delaying the inevitable because Liz is waiting. Still, Maka takes her time to chew and swallow before she responds, “No, Liz. I told you Eater and I agreed it was a mistake.” In actuality, they hadn’t agreed to shit-- but it  _ had  _ been a mistake and Maka isn’t keen on repeating it. It isn’t her fault she can’t control her subconscious. “It happened-- turn the page.” 

 

“Riiiight,” Liz scoffs. “He lays a  _ twenty _ on you and you expect me to turn the page?”

 

“Why?” a loud voice bellows. “Who’s on first?” 

 

Maka turns around to see Lieutenant Starinsky zig zagging with Soul in tow. When’s she going to learn not to speak of the devil?  _ Fantastic!  _

 

“No, seriously,” Starinsky grins, pulling up a chair, “Y’all were talking baseball. Who’s on first?” he insists. 

“What?” Soul asks, and Maka groans.

 

“No--” Star looks at Soul like a gleeful child. “--What’s on second.” 

 

“Perfect--” says Soul, but he turns to Maka as the burger sails past. “You’re eating  _ that _ at a time like this? Wasn’t that what we used to patch a steam line this morning?” 

 

“Desperate times,” Maka says, darkly.

 

“Bro-ham?!” Star glares at Soul, bemoaning the loss of his game. “You-- that’s low.” But the guy turns to Maka. “Yanno Maks, I could’ve spotted you a Power Bar, gave my last one to my man here Soul, about a minute ago. If you bat your lashes and ask nicely, I’d bet he’d share,” he sing songs and if he wasn’t her best friend, she’d murder him here right now. 

 

“Oh I bet he’d share more than--  _ ouch!”  _ Liz howls, when Maka’s boot connects much to Maka’s satisfaction. 

 

Soul looks around the table. “Did I miss something?” he asks. 

 

Maka is the picture perfect definition of pure innocence. “Not at all,” she says sweetly. He’d pushed the protein bar at her, but she slides it back. “All yours, I’ll grab coffee. I’ll be fine.” She ends up glaring at him when he shoves the bar back at her.

 

“Seriously, bruh, don’t bother,” Star says, grinning wide at Maka watching the weird game of pass the protein bar intently. “The woman bleeds espresso. You should’ve seen her during our navigation finals during ROTC. God, how did your kidneys survive seventy-two hours straight?”

 

“Weren’t you asleep for most of it on your drafting table, Benji?” Maka laughs, wholeheartedly. 

 

“Well I didn’t have it hooked up to a vein!” He’s cackling madly. “Some of us had to fend for ourselves.” 

 

“ _ Wait-- you guys went to school together?” _

 

Maka looks down at the Power Bar that somehow has ended up squashed under Soul’s hand. “Yeah, why?” she says.

 

“Damn straight, son,” says Starinsky, looking at Soul like he’s seen something Maka’s missed. “Would’ve dated too--” He grins wide, blowing her a suggestive kiss “--if Kid hadn’t gotten in the way.” Maka wants to hurl the half of the burger she’s eaten at him because Star is now biting his lip at her in the most ridiculous fashion. Even Liz shoots Star a glare. 

 

Soul’s face is back to a mask of apathy as he pockets the squashed Power Bar. “Who’s Kid?” he asks, voice flat. 

 

“DCA, you there?!”  Mifune’s disembodied voice cuts through the awkward silence and wraps around Maka like a life preserver. If the older man would’ve been standing in front of her, she’d have kissed him. Instead she rips her radio from her belt, grateful to get away from Starinsky’s obnoxiousness and Soul’s intense gaze.

 

“Here, Chief. What’s up?” And  _ please  _ let it require her personal attention. 

 

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’ve got a small problem on the second deck fantail,” his voice comes back and something in it makes Maka’s gut tense.

 

“How small?” she asks, bracing.

 

“Well a few of Supply’s forklifts broke their chains and are currently playing tag with the crew, as we speak,” he says.  

 

_ Shit! _ “On my way--” replacing the radio back on her belt, she turns to the group “--Sorry you guys, duty calls,” Maka says, without a trace of remorse. When Soul makes a move to follow, she stops him. “No, Hollywood-- this is the real deal, I can’t have you out there! You’ll only get in the way.” She rounds the table, gripping Star by the shoulder hard as she leans down to whisper, “You’re an ass-- next time your room’s on fire, I’mma let it burn.” 

 

“Go get ’em,  _ tiger _ !” His laughter follows her as she takes off for the door in a jerky run walk. It makes her skin crawl with that disturbing dreamlike quality where she feels like she’s running in place and getting nowhere. The storm is getting worse. The swells are increasing in severity. 

 

Exiting the officer’s wardroom, she grabs her ball cap from the row of hooks, ramming it on her head. She feels like a battered pinball as she runs down the passageway. Practiced hands grab the handrails of the ship stairs as she kicks up both legs over the railing, sliding down to the bottom, hitting the next deck with a solid thump. A small grin steals across her face; she lives for this. 

 

Minutes-- that feel like an eternity-- later, she reaches the aft end of the ship, stopping short-- only to have something solid ram into her. Maka spins, looking up, and then glares at Soul. “I thought I told you to stay put!” she shouts. 

 

“Shit-- sorry, don’t follow orders well. Sue me,” he says, and with a grin no less. “Are we going to stand here bickering or are we going to help?” he asks. 

 

“ **_We’re_ ** not doing anything-- I am!” Maka snarls. “You stay here-- that’s an order you’d better follow!” She doesn’t have time for this. She’s already turned back to the door, un-dogging it to shove it open.  _ Holy motherfuck-- _

 

Maka stuffs her shock into the mental closet and slams the door so she can assess the situation-- this is her job! A crack of lightning illuminates the driving rain and the surreal scene before her. Three of the four forklifts have broken their chains. Two are still rolling freely on deck while various crew members chase them. The machines move as if driven by invisible demons. Maka shakes the thought as her eyes zero in on Chief Mifune and various members of the Flying Squad who are struggling to hold the third in place while Petty Officer Giriko strains to reattach the flailing chains to the deck.

 

Mentally gauging they’ll be able to secure that lift, Maka sets out for one of the smaller groups converging around the other lifts. It isn’t until she’s latched onto it with Petty Officer Hiro and another sailor that she realizes Soul is still with her, and there’s no time to yell at him as the lift breaks away, dragging all four of them. Their team barely manages to stop it before it slams into the fantail’s safety rail.

 

“ _ Hollywood! _ ” Maka bellows, but the sound doesn’t carry far over the howling of the storm and the other shouts. “Grab that chain!” 

 

Soul acknowledges her shout with a nod as he twists around the back of the machine, extending a long muscular arm for the free chain while he maintains a death grip on the lift with the other. “Got it!” he shouts.

 

Wind whipped saltwater blasts her face. She inhales a mouthful before she can shout. “There’s a padeye behind you-- the anchor point! Can you reach it?”

 

“Yeah!” 

 

“Here!” shouts Hiro, wrenching a new hook out of his vest pocket to replace the one that broke when the chain snapped, passing it over. Soul clasps it in place on the end of the chain and then bends back into the gale. The muscles in his arms strain as he hauls the heavy chain to the padeye welded to the deck. Maka winces when Soul’s knuckles come into contact with the unforgiving, non-skid coating of the deck. He’s sure to have lost skin with that. 

 

Moments later he shouts, “Got it!”

 

The group breathes a collective sigh of relief but their victory is short lived, they still have three chains left to go-- the problem is two are too short. They’ll have to be welded or replaced. The only chain that might be long enough is the one closest to her on her left. It’s go time.

 

“Hiro-- hook! I’ve got this one!” she shouts, and the Petty Officer is ahead of her with the hook already extended. Maka grabs it, shimmying around the slick steel, cursing the rains as she strains to maintain her grip along with Soul and the other two. The  _ Death City _ takes another steep roll, sending the flying chain lashing into her gut, taking her breath with it. Maka grunts, but manages to throw her arm over the chain, clutching it to her body for dear life. Her stiff fingers work their way to the end and she attaches the hook. Now comes the task of dragging the chain to the padeye-- Maka hones in on the welded plate before she moves away from the forklift. 

 

“Hold tight!” she shouts, squatting to hook the chain, the wind in her eyes. She misses her first attempt. She has to secure it! Concentrating, Maka throws her weight into the chain, connecting the hook to the padeye. 

 

**“** **_DCA!!!”_ **

 

Maka shoots up at the sound and freezes like a deer in headlights. The fourth forklift has succumbed to the surging ship, the snapped chains thrash behind it as the machine screams down the deck aided by the swales pummeling the hull, aimed straight for her. A second before she becomes forklift roadkill, something shoves her hard out of the way and she careens towards the safety rail.  

 

She hits the railing, sliding along its water-slick surface, unable to gain purchase with her numb hands, a string of curses tailing her. What stops her is her head cracking against a steel pole. “ _ Mother- fucker!" _  she howls, but the agony of her temple is offset by the fact that she knows she would have been crushed if she hadn’t been shoved. Gripping the railing, she whips around and barely makes out Soul’s face amid the mental fog that’s threatening to drown her. 

“Christ-- Maka, are you okay?” he’s shouting. And she’s not exactly sure how he got to her so fast.

 

She nods, managing a shaky smile as she brushes off his hands. “‘m fine-- thanks. Let’s just get this wrapped up,” she says, trying to keep her head clear. 

 

He looks ready to argue, but her adrenaline has kicked in and she doesn’t give him the chance as she turns back to the group. Grateful that the rest of the Flying Squad has mustered while she was dazed. 

 

Together they work to secure the remaining lifts, trapping them and holding them steady while Giriko and Hiro weld everything in place. The sea is now starting to mellow out of the sub-hurricane like conditions thanks to the course correction Captain Buttataki’s set. The rain finally begins to slack off as they work.  

 

With the last chain locked in place, Maka finally breathes a sigh of relief. Her hand comes up to rub at the welt on her temple, and causes Soul to turn as she gasps out loud. 

 

He’s at her side in a moment, tipping her head back. It’s like a scene in a movie, she thinks, or maybe like that Time cover of the sailor. But the way he’s frowning at her as his fingers smooth along her forehead means she isn’t getting lucky. “Damnit, Maka-- you said you were fine!” 

 

This isn’t the time to be fantasizing in his arms. Maka jerks her chin out of his hands, snatching her cover back. She’s thoroughly more embarrassed by how those fingers ignite her body than by being motherhenned in front of her division. “I.  _ Am _ ,” she hisses. 

 

“Maka,” his voice is low, pleading, and his mouth is set in a deep frown. “You’re bleeding.” 

 

“It's just a scratch.” Her chest is heaving with the feelings she isn’t allowed to have. So she fights back. “So are you, I don’t see you complaining.” Why does he have to look so good-- why isn’t her head cooperating?

 

Soul takes a deep breath, “Maka--”

 

“Save your worry. I’ll stop by Medical and grab a band-aid when this is over,” she says, waving him off.

 

“DCA!” Mifune shouts, drawing her attention.

 

Maka whips her head towards her Chief and instantly regrets all her life choices. But her gratitude towards Soul grows as he shoots out an arm to steady her with no trace of a smirk. “Thanks,” she says. 

 

“We’re going for that band-aid-- now,” he growls. 

 

She doesn’t feel well, and when the ship starts to swim in her eyes, she doesn’t feel like arguing. “ _ Fine, _ but I need to see what Chief Mifune needs.”

 

“Maka--” It’s a warning she chooses to ignore as she heads back to the watertight door. 

 

“Wait here--” she tells him, there’s a silent please in there somewhere, but she’s concentrating with all her might to keep herself from fainting. “What’s up, Chief?”

 

The gray haired man motions her closer. “Look at this.”

 

Maka squeezes her eyes shut for a minute as she struggles to focus on the link he’s placed in her hand. She has to bring it up to her face before she’s able to get a good look at it.  _ Shit! _ Her vision clears and she flips the link over in her hand to examine the other side, fingers sliding along the cold metal.  _ Oh fuck! _ She looks up, willing her intuition to be wrong, only to find the confirmation in Mifune’s gray eyes. 

 

“No, you’re not imagining it. I checked the links of the other two and they look the same.”

 

There’s a cold chill going down her back because the link in her hands has been deliberately cut.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to express my gratitude for the comments people have sent. I wish ao3 made responding to the messages as simple as it is on ff.net without spamming the comments but I appreciate everyone so much. Again, my betas are the bees knees, seriously this wouldn't be half as good without them. Also, I urge y'all to read the original story the au is from-- For His Eyes Only by Candace Irving.


	7. Chapter 7

 

“I don’t understand.” Maka’s head is spinning with nausea. “Why the hell would someone deliberately cut the chains?” she asks as she holds tight to the door frame, trying to breathe through her nose so she doesn’t pass out. 

 

“Beats me.” Mifune pulls a toothpick from the netting of his cover to chew on thoughtfully. “If you’re going to sabotage a ship-- there are better ways.” His eyes are stormy gray as he looks over the sheared metal link.  

 

_ He’s right, _ Maka thinks. “Unless--” oh no no no, “Unless they weren’t trying to take out the ship,” she says. 

 

“You mean, targeting the Flying Squad?” he asks picking up on her logic quickly.

 

A shiver of goosebumps rocks her. She’s gripping the steel frame for all she’s worth, and she will not nod. “Yes, but if that’s the case, a fire would’ve been better,” she says. His features are starting to swim in her field of vision.

 

Chief Mifune is now scrutinizing her face, the suspicion replaced by concern. “Lieutenant, you need to see Medical.”

 

“I’m fine,” Maka grits out through her clenched jaw. She’s caught Soul in the corner of her eye approaching, there isn’t much time. She slips the cut link into her pocket. “I need to go see doc about a band-aid. Will you look into this while I’m at Medical?” He nods, face grim. “And Chief-- don’t breathe a word about this to  _ anyone _ until we’ve talked.”

 

“Understood.” He pulls a clean bandana out of his pocket, indicating her forehead and raises it to the gash. “Keep pressure on it. You’re bleeding pretty bad--” She winces as he presses it to her head gently, replacing his hand with hers. “Maka-- let me help you to medical before I start this--”

 

Shaking her head is a mistake, Maka sways but Soul has reached them. “I’ll take her, Chief,” he says, a firm hand on her shoulder keeping her steady. “I’ll make sure you make it there in one piece,” he says to her, searching her face.

 

Mifune stiffens, glancing somewhere out over the dark horizon before turning back. Maka’s pulse is throbbing in her fingertips as she keeps the pressure but she gives Mifune a steady look. “I need you to finish that write-up before this turns cold. I’ll be fine.”

 

The older man looks from Soul’s hand on her shoulder then back to her face before he nods. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

 

They aren’t even over the lip of the door when Soul asks, “Before what turns cold?”

 

Maka hangs onto the latch, trying to offset the swells still hitting the ship and the fog that’s lapping at the edges of her consciousness. “The scene-- standard procedure.” She’s starting to see double and blinking tightly is no longer helping. “I need to get to Medical.” 

 

“Want me to-- I could carry you?” he offers softly. Something about his tone doesn't jive with an idea she can put a finger on. A more active part of her brain notes he hasn’t removed the hand from her shoulder and that’s good as long as she can keep the other shoulder firmly planted on the passageway bulkhead, she’ll make it.

 

“No,” she huffs, pushing forward. “Just don’t move your hand.”

 

“Maka--” 

 

“Zip it. I’m concentrating,” Maka hisses, moving at the speed of a dying motorized power chair down the darkened passageway. The one saving grace is that it’s after taps, so the only crew up are those on duty. Everyone else should be asleep in their racks. No one around to witness her mortal weakness-- except Soul-- but somehow she thinks he won’t hold it against her. 

 

Everything's fine until she reaches the stairs that lead up to Medical. Well _ , shit _ , she thinks. It was a nice life. At any rate, she lifts her boot only to nearly crash to the deck face first. Soul’s vice-like hands around her waist are what stop her. “Thanks,” she wheezes. 

 

“Maka-- I’m picking you up,” he informs her. She’s not about to argue. When is the last time she was carried in a man’s arms? Maka wonders trying to fight the fog-- it was probably Papa after Mama told them she was leaving. After that, she’s never let anyone get that close.

 

His mouth hasn’t lost that frown, and she’s fading fast, and why does he smell so good…

  
  


Could he have shoved her out of the way any less brutally? He’s a sack of shit. The jagged cut on her temple doesn’t let him forget the sickening way she’d hit the railing. She looks so small. He knows she isn’t fragile, but she hasn’t opened her eyes yet as much as he’s been willing them. When her eyes flutter open, black lashes blinking flashes of green, his lungs finally expand.  

 

“Ungh,” she moans. “What happened?”

 

“You passed out,” he says, but he’s grateful he stopped her from smashing face first into the stairs. “Are you always this much trouble, DCA?” 

 

“No-- you’re lying,” she says, trying to escape the examination table.    
  
“I’m not-- Maka, don’t move. I’ll pin you if I have to-- so don't make me,” he says, while green eyes prod his for weak points. Whatever she sees reflected on his face makes her stay put. “Look, you’d be a tripping hazard if I’d left you on the stairs,” he says, but the relief of her waking takes any hardness from his tone. 

 

God, carrying her is an added wrench in his gut he doesn’t need-- her sheer will only offset by the vulnerability of not being able to do it herself. Starinsky’s words come back to him from before the night went to hell. He doesn’t want to wonder how close two people who’d gone through ROTC together can be and who is  _ Kid _ ?  

 

Soul stuffs those questions into the black room-- something else isn’t adding up. 

 

Maka and Mifune had that serious conversation, and what had she slipped into her pocket?  It would seem, whatever it is, the lieutenant and chief were keen to not let anyone find out. And, if the hospital corpsman hadn’t come in when she did, Soul would know as well--  _ Damnit. _ __   
  


The door to the exam room bursts open as a very worried Liz storms in. “Jesus, Maka! How many times do I have to tell you to duck?” 

 

“Good to see you too-- _ mom, _ ” Maka grumbles. “I feel great-- can I go now?”

 

“Listen, Linda--  _ zip it! _ ” Liz says, looking down at her friend. Ah, so that’s where she gets it, Soul thinks-- “What happened?” Liz turns steel blue on him.

 

Maka rolls her eyes before she tries to get up, only for both Liz and Soul to each place a hand on her shoulders. “Stay put, or I’ll give you a shot of Seconal to knock you out,” Liz threatens her.

 

Soul swallows his chuckle at Maka’s pouting lip and frowny, “Yes ’am.” 

 

“Cliff notes version: I shoved her out of the way of a runaway forklift straight into the safety rail. She made it to the stairs before nearly face planting--” He looks up to explain to Liz “--she passed out.”

 

“Did not!” Maka retorts angrily, but both he and Liz give her the same skeptical look at the same time. Her pale cheeks burn bright and his breath catches at the sight of those back-lit freckles. He hopes Maka’s muttered “Sorry” is enough to mask his  _ faux pas _ .  

 

“Uh, how can I help?” He turns to Liz so he doesn’t wind up staring at Maka like some love drunk idiot. 

 

“Yeah-- no,” she says, cocking her head towards the exam door. “You need to go see my department head, she’s waiting in the next room to examine your hand.”

 

The reminder that his hand is in bad shape makes Soul look down. He’d forgotten all about it until just then. “Uh-- I can stay,” he says, feeling painfully obvious.

 

“Go,” Liz insists as she starts swabbing a sterile pad around Maka’s temple. “She’ll be fine.”

 

“No. Wait-- wait!” Soul turns back to Maka. That catch in her voice makes the G crescendo into a power chord. “Where’s my ball cap?” she asks, and the sound fizzles into a shitty recorder screech. 

 

_ Is she serious? _ He resists the urge to facepalm but only just. He’s worried about her because he’d caused her to split her head open but of course it’d make sense she’s worried about the  _ damned _ hat. Soul bites back his scowl as he snatches it off the chair next to the table and thrusts it at her-- but she doesn’t take it. 

 

Blood still rushing in his head, he looks down as the sun parts the clouds-- Maka is smiling at him. A gorgeous smile that radiates straight from her soul and through her eyes-- a ray of pure unfiltered sunlight that shines all the way into the black room of his soul and lights it on fire. “It’s yours, Hollywood-- you earned it.”

 

“Hnnn,” he scoffs. Face twitching from the emotional whiplash, but it morphs into an honest grin. Somehow, Soul manages to turn and exit the room, clutching the stupid scrap of scarlet like it’s Ariadne’s String. 

 

The automatic closer snaps the door shut. He’s an idiot. This whole time, he’s known-- He’s known Maka is incapable of running drugs and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt she’d never turn a blind eye to it-- and it’s about time he starts acting like it. 

 

He’s about to walk away when he feels the full force of Maka’s wrath through the steel door. “Shut your face, Doc! Just stitch up my head-- I’ve got work to do!” Soul has to bite down on the knuckles of his good hand.     

 

//

 

Soul is standing outside of his door doing an awkward body hug as his good hand fishes out the key to his stateroom from his right pocket. His gaze goes automatically to Maka’s door before he puts her out of his mind and shoulders his way into his room. He drops his keys onto his desk as he stares at the ball cap she’s given him. 

 

Her hat. 

 

Her  _ cover.  _

 

Soul fingers along the scarlet edge. It still has her officers emblem, a gold eagle brandishing a silver shield, pinned below the name of the ship. He resists the temptation to don it simply because it’s hers. He nearly succumbs. 

 

Wouldn’t Dad be hootin' and hollering if he could see him now?  

 

He chucks Maka’s hat into his rack, wishing he could rid himself of what it represents just as easily. Bale is wrong-- Maka loves the sea it’s true, but she  _ isn’t _ like his father. Not that it’s any of his business to prove it, it isn’t, he knows that. It’s just ironic that the first person he feels this way about is tied so strongly to a lifestyle he can’t reconcile with-- This isn’t the time and place. He has a mission to focus on. 

 

And, it starts with figuring out what the fuck took place tonight. 

 

There’s a bad feeling in his gut that says the forklifts had a helping hand. And something about Maka’s private conversation with her Chief didn’t do much to put that bad feeling to rest. If anything, his skin feels like it’s crawling. 

 

But whose helping hand? Bale’s? … Starinsky’s? 

 

And why-- why now? Soul crosses over to the trash can located under the sink to unwrap a few layers of gauze. It’s apparent Lieutenant Nygus takes her job-- care for a  _ film _ star-- very seriously. As he drops the unnecessary gauze into the trash, the hair on the back of his neck raises and his blood goes cold. 

 

Someone’s been through his trash--  _ shit! _

 

He shoots up, back ramrod straight before he spins to the door. There’s a void in his head, no sound computes as he strains to hear something, anything-- but what? There is no sound save for the hum of the ventilation system. 

 

His gut and all of his senses are on red alert.

 

Quietly, carefully, Soul crawls across his compartment to where the safe is located behind the temporary desk--  _ fuck fuck fuck. _

 

The number on the dial is set to four and a  _ half  _ when he’d left it on four. It’s sinking confirmation that someone has scoured his room. Someone had gone through his trash and then tampered with the safe.

 

Soul quickly turns the dial a number of times going through the code and popping the hatch. Chest compressed air comes out in a whoosh as he confirms everything inside is in its rightful place down to the piece of lint he’d left on the top. 

 

Even if his cover survived this attempt, he can no longer afford to take a chance. He slips the entire contents of the safe back into his boots. After resetting the lock, he turns to do a systematic search of his quarters. The suspicion, now confirmed beyond any doubt. 

 

Whoever went through his room took their sweet time as evidenced by each item being returned to its nearly perfect position. 

 

The worst of it is-- even if he tests for prints, he knows he isn’t going to find any-- whoever planned this wasn’t going to be stupid enough to forget gloves. That detail focuses him on the element of time--  _ fuck--  _ whoever had done this knew they had it. Plenty of it. 

 

He doesn’t want to think of who’s on that list-- Lieutenant Starinsky had time. 

 

Soul’s eyes dart up to the cap on his rack and then move past it, to the mutilated corpse Starinsky had dumped on him-- he’d been the one to suggest meeting Maka in the wardroom. 

 

Yep, Starinsky would have had the opportunity. And if the guy factored in a time delay, he is a suspect. Or… Soul is pissed the guy dumped the dummy corpse on him instead of inviting him to the NSF like he’d assumed he would. Is it the missed opportunity that’s burning him or the fact he’s just learned Starinsky went to school with Maka? The note trembles in his head as he wars with his demon. 

 

The sound of voices register. Maka has returned with Liz. “I mean it,” says the former. “Maka, you’re not allowed to stand watch tonight.”

 

“How many times do I have to say it, Liz. I feel fine-- might feel  _ better  _ if there was less pain,” Maka says.

 

“You know I can’t give you anything because it could mask latent bleeding or swelling.” Liz sounds frustrated. “And then again, even if I gave you painkillers, you’re not legally allowed to operate heavy machinery-- I’m pretty sure a ship falls under that category, babe.” 

 

Maka’s retort, whatever it is, is cut off by the shutting door. It doesn’t take much imagination to think of her response.

 

Still though, she’s back. The anxiety he’s holding in his chest drops to his stomach. He hates the idea of pressing Maka this soon after everything she’s been through tonight, but he has to. There’s too much at stake. If he waits she might forget something crucial. Broaching the subject of Starinsky isn’t going to be fun or easy.

 

Soul exits his stateroom to take the step to hers.

 

He’s staring at her door, waiting, before he takes a deep breath and raps on the metal with the knuckles of his good hand.  Because he has no idea if the relationship he’s just become aware of between her and Starinsky is going to work in his favor or against it. 

  
  


Maka looks from Liz then back to the door of her stateroom at the sudden rapping from the passageway--  _ Chief Mifune? _

 

She’s in a pickle because as much as she’d like to confide in Liz, she needs to speak to Mifune alone. “Hey, I’m pretty tired,” she says with a stretch, and she’s not really surprised when the yawn is, in fact, real. “I think I’m going to hit the rack.”

 

Liz is already walking towards the door. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. Just, sleep on your back-- ‘kay? I don’t want to have to redo my sewing in the morning,” she says as she yanks open the door to reveal Soul. “Huh, somehow, I’m not surprised.” 

 

Well,  _ shit! _ She needs to talk to Mifune-- not Soul. “Uh, hey Hollywood-- how’s the hand?” Maka smiles at his awkward hand raise and immediately has to bite back her wince. 

 

“Okay. Your head?” he asks.

 

“Fine,” she lies through her teeth. 

 

It’s the way he emotes concern through those smoky red eyes that leads her to vaguely understand why women throw themselves into men’s arms. But, that’s not who she is.  And yet-- it’s hard to not want to delve deeper, because it’s the same look he’d worn on deck. 

 

“That can’t feel good,” he says, quietly.

 

An unbidden bubble of laughter escapes her, “Yeah, I’ve had better.”

 

“Excuse me, Soul,” says Liz, trying to do that awkward dance with him so she can exit the room. “I was just leaving. Maka, I’ll be checking in on you in an hour or so.” 

 

“Actually, I was going to offer to keep you company,” he says, looking at Maka. “Maybe take first watch.” He directs at Liz 

 

“I, ah--”

 

“That’s a great idea!” Liz cuts off her protest, evil smirk coloring her face. “That would give me peace of mind-- please call me immediately if you can’t see the whites of her eyes or if she doesn’t respond when you call her name.” 

 

“Yes ma'am,” he says, meekly. 

 

With that Liz turns to leave, shooting Maka a brilliant cheshire grin while Soul is left standing awkwardly in Maka’s doorway. 

 

“Well--” Maka glowers now that her plans to murder Liz for being a meddling piece of shit have been foiled “--You may as well come in.”

 

The door shuts behind him with a metallic click and she now has to contend with the memories of the last time he was in her room, alone. “You don’t like not being in control,” he says, with a small grin.

 

“What gave me away?” Maka frowns then instantly regrets it.

 

His concern clouds his face again. “It’s bad isn’t it?” 

 

Maka isn’t sure which is worse, the pain in her head or the pain in her chest caused by those soft red eyes. She turns away from him, admitting, “Yeah.” Her left hand snakes up to her shoulder to try and work out the knot that’s been tightening ever since Mifune showed her those links.

 

His voice is velvet in her ears as he comes up behind her. “I could do that, if you’d like?” he offers, but still gives her enough space so she can refuse him. 

 

She has a mind to, but instead her arms slump to her side as she says, “Okay.” 

 

Maka bites back the moan that threatens to escape her as he starts working out the same knot she hasn’t had any luck getting rid of. Fights the urge to sink back into him. It’s dangerous, the tension leaving her body, and she knows it’s because it’s  _ his _ touch. All of her senses are on alert, coiled tight and yet relaxing. It’s almost as if he’s black magic itself. 

 

It hits her how isolated she’s become from human contact. Even though she can feel his breath warm against her neck, the way he’s working at the muscle is almost mechanical, comforting but mechanical. There’s nothing sexual in the touch and it dawns on her, that that’s what she wants. She wants to turn in his arms and claim his mouth.

 

_ Jeezus, _ did her parents’ broken relationship leave her this starved for emotional intimacy and affection? So afraid to trust men-- hell, anyone?

 

“So, you went to school with Starinsky?” he asks, dousing her with a much needed cold shower in the form of Benji. 

 

“Yeah,” she says tensing, trying to decide why she’s so defensive about such a benign question. Part of her wants to pull away from him and she makes a feeble attempt but she’s in his arms and something about the way he ends up rubbing his chin on her head cools some of her heat. “I went to school with a lot of guys, the Navy is sort of funny that way. First in Austin, and then I met a whole other set when I transferred back to San Diego for my senior year.” 

 

He hums as his hands cup her shoulders, his thumbs still working at the stress knots. “Why did you transfer?” he asks quietly, on the uninjured side of her temple.

 

Maka slumps a little. “My papa had a heart attack, so I returned to be closer to home,” she says simply. “He’s fine now, listened to the warnings-- quit smoking and... changed it up.” What she doesn’t say is that the changes came around too little too late. Mama was always going to put her career before others. But, thankfully Soul doesn’t seem to notice.  

 

“Who’s Kid?” 

 

“A guy I know,” she tells him, but it’s not entirely clear to her why he’s asking about him _. _

 

“Was the necklace a gift from him?” he asks, and she’s thoroughly confused now.

 

“What? No, it was a commissioning gift from my parents.” The confusion feels like a different sort of fog in her already foggy consciousness. Why would he be wondering if it’s a gift from Kid? It makes no sense.

 

All she wants to do is lose herself to Soul’s hands, and possibly turn around to see if that kiss really was as good as she remembers-- it can’t be. And if she does, where is that going to land her? In a legal mess, that’s where--

 

The phone rings then, cutting through the thickening fog like the warning beacon from a lighthouse, giving her the will to move away from those magical hands. “Hello?” Maka frowns at the huskiness in her voice.

 

“DCA?” Even Mifune picked up on the strangeness,  _ shit _ .

 

Maybe turning away from Soul will help clear her mind. “What’s up, Chief?”

 

He launches into his findings. “From what I discovered, three of the four links were cut straight through on one side. The remaining chain was left whole-- it’d buy time.”

 

_ Shit! _ Maka cups a hand around the receiver to whisper, “How much?”

 

“In that storm-- not a lot. Maybe a half hour, hour tops--” he pauses “--You have someone listening in?” he asks, accurately interpreting her whisper. 

 

Maka tries to adjust her voice to normal phone speak. “I understand-- who do you want to take the watch?” It sounds wooden to her ears, but it’s all she can come up with on the spot.

 

“Hmm, I see. I have no idea who could’ve done it. I don’t have any leads, but I’m not done asking around, either,” he says, voice grim.

 

“Well, wake him gently,” Maka says, forcing a laugh, temple stinging a little from the effort. “You know how he gets.” 

 

“Understood,” he says, quietly and then adds. “How’s your head?”

 

Her fingers go to her temple automatically. “Ah, fine.” It does feel better.

 

“Good.” He has a way of saying the word that has always been a soothing balm to Maka. “I’ll call if I uncover anything else tonight. If not, I’ll see you at quarters in the morning.”

 

“Okay, thanks Chief,” she says, replacing the phone back on the receiver. 

 

//

 

Soul is studying Maka carefully, but he’s relieved to see that the massage has helped. She isn’t favoring the eye below the cut anymore. 

 

That jagged cut-- god help the culprit when he figures out who’s behind this. Because they’re going to pay. But before that can happen, he needs to confirm his gut is correct. 

 

Who better to help him than the woman who has the pulse of the ship under her thumb? “So-- are you going to tell me what happened tonight?” 

 

He’s watching her closely, that green can be so expressive-- and the answer is there, the minute she deliberately misconstrues his question. “That? Oh, a sailor missed watch, Chief Mifune needed to ah run it by me.” 

 

“Really?” Soul crosses his arms. “Tonight.” She’s getting there.

 

“Yes, he was supposed to be on watch already,” she says, a tad on the defensive. Still though, she unhooks her keys from her belt and stares at them.

 

“Maka,” he says, and his tone draws her eyes back to his. “Why are you lying?”

 

“Excuse me?” Her keys jingle in her hands. The silence stretches and Soul listens to the sound of the ship on the waves. “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” she says at length.

 

Soul squares his boots on the deck, feeling the kinetic energy of the swell before the ship rides it out. He stands his ground. “I’ve been following you for two weeks now. Within my first day on board I learned you expect your people to pull their weight-- regardless if you’re around to watch or not.” He moves forward and slips the keys from her hand carefully, setting them on the desk. “I’m not saying you don’t have a sick sailor on watch-- but there’s no way in hell Chief Mifune would call you up at this time with a correction. Not after the night you’ve had. He’d’ve handled it.” He lets the full weight of the words sink in, lowing his six foot frame so he can look her directly in the eyes.

 

The green feels like it’s crackling with energy. “Hollywood--”

 

“No, Maka-- you listen. Something happened to those forklifts tonight.” Those lashes are fluttering rapidly. “You trusted me enough this past week to work with your guys. You trusted me with  _ your _ cover. I’m asking you,  _ please _ , trust me now when it really matters. When I can do something to help.” 

 

He can see her processing this, going over the ramifications. Weighing his words. She’s trying to push through his walls; it feels as if she’s at the door of the black room. “The chains were tampered with.”

 

_ Goddamnit _ , he hates it when he’s right. Hates that it’s causing her worry. Hates wishing he could smooth away those tiny, neat stitches and that jarring cut on her temple. 

 

But he can’t. The truth of those stitches are that he’s done this to Maka. 

 

Not Bale, not Starinsky-- him. He’s known she isn’t the one and still he needs her. He’d needed her trust to gain access to the tight little world aboard the  _ Death City _ . Only now he’s caught the attention of who he’s really after and consequently put her in danger.

 

Bale, Starinsky-- doesn’t matter which one. What matters now is that he tells Maka the truth, and that she hears it from him. Trusting others has never come easy, but he’s a hypocrite if he stands here after gaining her trust and doesn’t do her the honor of reciprocating. Even with all the possible ramifications-- working with Maka is better than working around her. Only he’s not sure if she’s going to feel the same way after he comes clean.

 

As the silence draws on Maka’s face suddenly goes red and those freckles re-emerge. It hits him like a bolt of lightning, he didn't reacted to her revelation. She moves away from him and he’s scrambling, trying to cover his error somehow.

 

“Must have hit my head harder than I realized. Forget I said anything Hollywood. I have no idea why anyone would want to vandalize the ship in the middle of a storm, but I can guarantee this isn’t Mission Impossible or Jason Bourne or or or even John Wick,” she’s rambling. But, had he done something to embarrass her-- there’s no time, he needs to tell her  _ now. _

 

Soul drags the chair from her desk and hikes his boot onto the seat. He reaches in to pull out the one piece of evidence he has that’s going to change everything Maka thinks she knows about him. He leans over his knee carefully and sets it on the middle of her desk, waiting for those lashes to still when she zeros in on it.

 

“Explain.” It’s an order.

 

“Glock, nine mil, semi automatic-- seventeen round magazine. No safety--” 

 

“I know  _ that, _ ” she hisses.

 

Of course she does, war is her profession. But it’s his, as well, he just fights closer to home. His eyes go down to the gun, and back up to her face. “It’s loaded.” 

 

Even though his eyes are trained on hers, he knows her hands are twitching at her sides, instinctually. Soul very deliberately links his hands together over his propped leg. He knows in his gut that if he so much as breaths in the direction of the gun, she’ll fight him for it. He also knows she won’t stop until she wins. 

 

“What I mean is, what are you planning on doing with it?” Her voice is steady, cool, but offset by the turbulent green of her gaze. 

 

Soul sighs as he reaches in to his boot, wondering if their budding trust is going to be enough to bridge the crumbling foundation on which it was built. He pulls out  _ his _ actual wallet and tosses it to her. 

 

Maka catches it neatly. 

 

All he can do is hold his breath while she opens the leather to reveal his badge, calling to question everything they’ve shared, and he sees her walls go up, blocking him out. The note fades into the void, leaving behind the silence of a blown speaker. 

 

The green in her eyes cools to sea ice, breaking the last of his soul in two as she says, “Who the hell are you and what is going on?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for your reviews! I shared that love with my betas blue_wynter <3


	8. Chapter 8

 

Maka is clenching and unclenching her jaw, pride warring with just how utterly  _ stupid  _ she feels in this exact moment. He must be having a really good laugh at her expense-- her teeth grind as she tries to parse through the information she’s just been hit with.

 

Even when her head had smacked into the side of the ship, she wasn’t this dazed and she certainly hadn’t been this pissed. 

 

Breathing in through her nose shakily, nostrils flared, Maka does her best to shove her anger into that mental closet of hers and assess the evidence at hand-- his Glock sits on her desk. Everything it represents is contradictory to what she knows about him.  But, it’s evident he isn’t going to shoot her. If that had been his plan he’d have done it already. Her lips purse, and  _ if  _ it had been his plan _ \-- _ why the hell would he have risked potential injury to himself by saving her ass on the fantail only to shoot her now? Logic crumbles her emotional reaction and her gut feels neutral-- which means...

 

His ID is  _ real. _

 

Soul jerks his head towards the badge in her hands. “If you’ve got access to a cell, I can have it confirmed.” 

 

“Yes, I know.” She fidgets with the badge. “I’ll take that confirmation just the same.” Her eyes flit back to the badge, not that she needs to re-read; the information is already branded into her psyche.  _ Special Agent E. Soul  _ **Evans** _ ; Drug Enforcement Agency.  _ Well, at least he hasn’t lied about his given name, she thinks sourly, but manages to plaster a fake smile as she looks up. “So tell me, Mr.  _ Evans _ , why exactly are you on my ship posing like a--” Maka stops. The weight of the nickname she christened him with is a sucker punch now.   

 

“Finish it,” he says, leveling her with a smoky look.

 

“--Hollywood bimbo.” Maka grits out, staring at him as she adds more insult to injury.

 

And yet, his face morphs into a self deprecating grin. “I, uh, have never thought of myself that way,” he says quietly. “I do believe that’s the first time anyone’s called me a bimbo-- to my face.” 

 

“Mr.  _ Evans--”  _ she starts, but he’s suddenly standing directly in front of her, his eyes tense as he gives a small jerk to his head. She hadn’t seen him move. 

 

“Maka--” It’s a warning “-- _ please _ keep your voice down. You bandy that name around much louder and it’ll get me fucking killed.”  

 

It’s almost worse than if he’d physically shushed her with a hand to her mouth-- the chastisement has her pride on the warpath this evening-- Maka steps back. “Got it,” she spits, in zero control of her anger. “I’m still waiting for that answer.”

 

Soul leans away from her, scrubbing at his peculiar white hair with a hand. “It’s, heh, a long story.”

 

She isn’t amused. “Well-- obviously I’m not allowed on the bridge tonight, funny enough. Looks like I’ve got time-- start talking.” It isn’t a choice. Either he explains or she’s sounding the alarm.

 

“Okay, but can you please sit down?” he asks, and the worry she’d thought is just for show returns, making her call into question things she doesn’t want to analyze just yet. He gets  _ one _ chance. 

 

Soul turns to lock the watertight door as she makes her way to sit on her rack. He comes back to the desk, carefully picking up the gun,  and re-holsters it quickly back in his boot once more, pausing for a minute before he turns on her MP3 player and drags the desk chair next to the bunk, remaining a conversational distance away. The sound of Max Richter's take on Vivaldi fills her room and she takes comfort in the music.

 

She watches as his ear twitches and he turns to the player, before he returns to her with a wide smile. “I had no idea you listened to Richter.” 

 

Her jaw aches from how hard she’s flexing it. He has no right to smile at her like that-- or worse, why is her body responding to it after everything she’s just learned? Maka leans back against the bulkhead, his wallet clutched in a death grip as she brings up her legs, tucking them under her chin. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot of shit you don’t know about me.” It slips out before she can think it through,  _ damnit _ . He’s quoted the same comedian as well, and her jaw grinds together, hoping he doesn't acknowledge it.  

 

“Maka--” Soul says, quietly.

 

She doesn’t need that from him, that aching look in his eye-- he’s the one that’s been lying to her. “Spare me Hollyw--  _ Soul-- _ I need that explanation.” Now!

 

His hand comes back up to mess with his hair and she really wishes he wouldn’t, because something about it being messy shouldn’t be doing things to her. Especially as he lets the hair go, and half of it remains spiked up and jutting out to the side. “Several weeks ago a dealer showed up on the market with  _ Black Blood _ \--”

 

_ “Heroin?! _ ” she cuts him off. “You think someone on my ship is running drugs.”  _ Really? _ She’s smarter than that. If he didn’t he wouldn’t exactly be on the ship-- she resists the urge to face plant on her knees. 

 

“I know it’s a lot, and you’ve already been through so much.” The compassion he’s emulating isn’t something she wants to see, something she can’t handle, and doesn’t want or need it. “I can finish this in the morning-- I know you need to get some rest.”

 

Stubbornness is a hereditary family trait. “No-- I’m fine. Keep going…  _ please _ .” Even if he left, there’s no way in hell she’s going to be able to sleep after his revelation.

 

Her fingers keep tracing the the smooth ring around the part of his badge that reads special agent in an effort to avoid the concern she can feel radiating from his face. After a minute, where he’s probably trying to process if she can, in fact,  handle it, he sighs. “Okay, but if you need rest--”

 

“I’ll let you know. Can you, just, please explain?” She cuts him off. Half of her is focused on the conversation but another side of her is hyper aware of the crippling embarrassment she feels. For what? Throwing herself at an actor?! A non-actor, she mentally corrects. For being a woman discovering needs? 

 

“So, I was brought on the case after a known drug dealer showed up in the burn unit of San Diego General with unusual burns on his hands and, uh, groin region,” he states.

 

Maka blinks.  _ Groin?  _ How exactly had this man burned his hands and-- she stuffs the question into the closet. “When you say  _ unusual _ , what do you mean?” 

 

“Radiation,” he says by way of explanation but it's more than enough.

 

“Oh shit,” Maka blurts. 

 

“Pretty much. The poor bastard didn’t know the outside of the package was radioactive when he handled it, much less when he shoved it in his pants.” 

 

“Obviously--” Okay, her mind is racing to connect the dots. What was it that pointed the agency at them? “--Alright, but, then how does that lead you to us? Navy isn’t the only game in town when it comes to radiation-- not anymore,” she says, as her brain actively picks at the problem, unraveling the knot from what little she’s been given.

 

“It is, when it involves a repair ship,” he counters.

 

Maka scoffs. “And you took a sweet drug dealer at his word? Because they’re pillars of honesty, please.” 

 

He’s looking at her again, and it isn’t much different from when she thought of him as  _ Hollywood, _ the actor. He grins widely at her sass. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m inclined to believe this pathetic gopher.” Then his grin twists with a slight grimace. “I was there when the doctor informed him that his penis might blacken and fall off. That sort of news makes a person do crazy things.  Except this poor ass didn’t have much to give. All I got was the date he received the last shipment. He couldn’t ID his contact since they only ever met at night.”

 

_ Good lord, _ Maka thinks,  _ how awful-- _ and then something in her mind clicks. She un-tucks her legs from her under her chin to sit criss-crossed, leaning towards Soul, drawn in, in spite of herself. “Okay, so you had the date...and then you back checked who was in port.” 

 

Soul nods. “Exactly--  _ Death City and Durante. _ ”

 

_ Shit-- _ “It’s us.” Maka slumps back against the bulkhead. 

 

“Care to share? We have someone on the  _ Durante _ , but she’s turned up less than I have,” he says. 

 

Maka’s eyes narrow-- a woman-- his partner? Aaaand why does she care?? She takes a deep breath before sighing and explaining what she knows while attempting to shake the weird flare up of jealousy. “The  _ Durante’s _ a sub tender-- services submarines, not surface ships. The security on those is too tight to let a supply of heroin slip through for long. Which is how I’m assuming the drugs are getting aboard, right? Through a nuclear-capable ship.”

 

“I--uh-- I don’t know,” he says, blowing the air from his cheeks.

 

“You don’t  _ know?!” _ She doesn’t mean to sound incredulous but isn’t that his job? Maka blinks at her about face. Apparently, she’s willing to accept his whole story now-- whyyy? 

 

Soul drops his elbows to his knees, slumping his tall frame in what feels like defeat. “Hence my problem. I haven’t been able to get into the NSF spaces long enough to figure it out.”

 

Her heart has finally steadied enough to allow her to observe him intently as she attempts to reconcile the almost confounding, teasing-flirty and yet respectful man she’s comes to know the past few weeks with the serious DEA agent seated only eighteen inches away, staring at her attentively. And, she can’t. 

 

The why of it comes with a glaring revelation. 

 

_ Soul Eater _ doesn’t exist, he’s the persona. Soul  _ Evans  _ is the real thing and she knows this with unwavering conviction because she’s seen all of his telling signs over the last few weeks. The observations she’d written off because-- because she’s been too stubborn to give him a chance. Lord, she wanted to believe he’s a ridiculous Hollywood fuck boy so when he left, he’d just be gone. Believing that means she’d be safe.  _ From herself. _

 

That settles it. When they get back to port she’s going to find his stupid movie and watch it because apparently he’s a much better actor than she’s given him credit for. But for now she has to set aside Hollywood and work with the agent. Rubbing the side of her head, she sighs, “You can’t get into NSF on your own-- you’d raise too many flags. And besides the system runs on TPI.”

 

“You all sure love your acronyms,” he says, face furrowed in confusion. “I’ve not come across TPI before--”

 

“Two Person Integrity. It’s to safeguard classified material-- two sailors must be present at all times,” she explains. 

 

Soul stretches up, bringing his hands behind his neck, pulling the elbows down to his chest. “Fuck.” She watches him roll his neck and for a minute wants to rub the tension from his shoulders the way he had for her-- only she figures he might prefer something else she has to offer, more. 

 

“I can get around it,” she says, and his eyebrows perk up. “It’ll take some planning for sure, but I can get you in.” He unfolds, his face blooming with hope as he stares at her until the phone rings, bringing a fresh wave of tension back. “Relax, it’s probably Liz checking up on me,” she says.

 

He doesn’t say anything as he leans over to pop the receiver off the base to hand it to her. “DCA, here,” she says, still observing him. 

 

“There’s news.” Chief Mifune’s voice comes through. Maka tenses anyway because, she knows due to his cultural beliefs her Chief subscribes to the idea that news is news, there is no good or bad.

 

Maka stares at Soul, locking eyes with that deep red. “What’d you find out, Chief.” 

 

“Well, Petty Officer Giriko came up to me with some information after everything went down,” he starts. “Apparently he was on the scene with Lieutenant Law-- only they were ah otherwise... occupied...” Maka pinches between her eyebrows, she’s better off not knowing and remains quiet. “He didn’t get a good description other than it was  _ Khaki _ ,” he finishes, sounding resigned. 

 

Khaki! Damnit-- an  _ officer _ \-- her head is throbbing and it has nothing to do with her stitches. Noah Bale. Benjamin Starinsky. Oh god no, Soul’s after  _ Benji _ ?! She barely manages to say, “Okay.”

 

“I know,” Mifune acknowledges. “I’ll talk with you in a few hours, DCA.”

 

Her head is spinning as she hands the receiver back to Soul. Thoughts racing back over everything that has just transpired in her room, her jaw is going mad, and her mind is going a million a minute.

 

“Maka,” he asks, softly, “what happened?”

 

Along with her stubbornness, Maka can at times suffer from speak now, think later. “You--” her fingers are going to bear the dent of his ID. Fresh anger is jumbling her senses. He’d asked her questions, deliberate questions about--

 

“Yeah?” he asks, and it’s that look of concern that ultimately makes her chuck his wallet as hard as she can at that damned dimpled chin. Unfortunately, he actually catches it. “Come again?” he says, affronted.

 

“ _ USED ME! _ ” It’s a burning whisper that goes against everything she wants to do, which is rant and scream at him. It’s just that somewhere in her gut she knows screaming solves nothing and she cannot pinpoint the source of her ever growing shame.  The way Soul‘s looking at her now, half-pained, half-understanding, gives her pause. 

 

“In what way?” he asks, not backing away from the murderous glare she’s giving him. 

 

“You were questioning me about Starinsky--” She’s fuming, hissing out her questions so she doesn’t do something stupid like start to cry. No one knows that Maka only cries when she’s furious and she doesn’t need him taking it as a sign of weakness “-- Was it a set up from the beginning? All the-- whatever that was with your hand. The burning looks. Dancing?  _ That kiss--” _

 

The worst part is she can’t get a read on him with her emotions on overload, and he’s stoically accepting her anger. He’s letting her get it all out while he just stands there taking the verbal lashing. “Well?” she asks, and then as an afterthought adds, “And please -- spare me the lies. I’ve had as many as I can stomach for tonight!” 

 

“I haven’t lied to you--” His eyes won’t leave hers and that energy she’s felt about him ever since that first handshake is there, crackling around them amplifying her emotions-- “What I’m doing here, it’s classified-- I  _ couldn’t _ tell you.” 

 

But he has-- so what the hell does that mean? Maka stands there fighting off the threatening hot tears and processing this with a heaving chest. Is she angry because she feels like she was led on or is she angry because she was foolish enough to believe that kiss, those looks, that pop of electricity between their hands the first time she met him meant something they clearly didn’t? 

 

Except, she understands  _ classified _ . Embarrassment flares renewed; she herself had teased him about not having the clearance to attend one of her meetings?  _ Shit-- damnit.  _ “You  _ needed  _ me to trust you.” She's beyond incredulous. “You needed me to trust you so you’d be able to get into the NSF.” She feels colder than cold, hollow and empty. “Well, congratulations, you’re in.”

 

//

 

Maka’s words echo in his head. Sure as fuck doesn’t feel like he’s in, it feels more like a steel door has slammed in his face, Soul thinks. 

 

He's rooted to the spot, unable to move. For one, she’s pieced together everything with what little she’s gleaned from the past forty-odd minutes. She’s called him out on using her-- but he still stands by the fact that he’s doing his job, only he knows how much things like this burn-- she has every right to be upset-- to be this angry. He hates that he’s caused this.

 

Everything that’s happened tonight, she’s taken in stride. Even learning his actual identity-- but it wasn’t until the moment she reached the conclusion he’s used her that she lost her cool. Unless she came to that conclusion because she thinks he doesn’t care... Could that even mean-- could he even dare hope it means she  _ does  _ care? 

 

Another side of him can’t get over the fact that his team would highly benefit having someone as astute-- as detailed an observer as Maka Albarn is.

 

“Last question, Mr. Evans--” His skin feels electric. She's standing close but not close enough to bridge the growing chasm between them “-- Why trust me now? What's made you so sure I'm not going to march right out of here and down that passageway up two ladders, and barge into captain's cabin and blow your cover to seven hells?”

 

“My gut--” Blatant honesty is all he has to offer and it has her lashes fluttering “-- and your file--”

 

“What?” she cuts him off, pronouncing the silent  _ H.  _ She's processing faster, too. “Well, that explains your surprise about Benji-- my transfer isn't listed,  is it?” she hisses. That power G is feeling jealous at how she pronounces W's but he slams a lid on that.  

 

“It wasn't, no.” He's not about to start lying now. “Just your graduation from San Diego -- with honors.  The follow on military school's.  _ And,  _ the results of your officers physical fitness evaluations.” Maka can certifiably hand him his ass and the thought makes the tinnitus tingle. 

 

“That. Is. Private.” But it isn't anger that he feels blooming from her,  more like a mortified sense of shame that's confirmed as her face flushes deeply, making those freckles look more like stardust.  Which only highlights how far gone he really is.

 

“Maka, you wiped the floor--” he says, with awe. “Shit, you should be proud of your accomplishments.” He's in no position to say  _ he's _ proud of her, because that sort of patriarchal crap piques him--

 

“ _ Please _ ,  do you really think men want to work alongside a woman who doesn't need to be…” she trails off abruptly.

 

It doesn't take a genius to figure out where her mind is at.  “Saved? A woman who can take care of herself?” he asks quietly.  “Maka-- I didn't save you to lord my, my masculinity? Over you. I saved you because this damned ship wouldn't survive without you, and the crew knows it!” There's anger in his voice.  “And if some  _ men _ can't handle that-- fuck them!” The blood is rushing in his ears, because he can't exactly explain the devastation he’d personally feel if anything were to happen to her. That's his burden to bear  _ alone _ . “I know how important PII is-- I needed to clear forty-two sailors in twenty-four hours. You weren't assigned to NSF but I had to verify you had the clearance to enter.  I only read your file the night I found out I was assigned to you.” It's all out there, everything, but he still gives her the only thing he has to offer to make amends. “I'm sorry to have violated your privacy like that.”

 

She's staring at him, impassive. Soul has a choke hold on his wallet. What had he expected? For her to accept all this without question? His anxiety is trashing the black room.  “Maka--” he says, voice somehow even “-- I was doing my  _ job _ .”

 

The sounds of Winter fade in the background.  

 

Maka’s jaw is set. “One of my Petty Officer's saw a khaki uniform near the forklifts tonight.” She douses him with a cold bucket of case fact and he welcomes the change in subject.  He has a job to do. A job he wants over so he can address the pain he's caused. The important thing now is to find who's running the  _ Black Blood.  _ Before they decide Maka's collateral damage. 

 

“Did they say who it was?” It’s a difficult question. 

 

Maka sighs heavily. “No,  it was too dark,” she says as she starts to pull the pins out of her braid, collecting them in her hand.  He doesn't need this right now, not when she hates him, but he watches helplessly as her fingers massage her achy scalp. “Do  _ you  _ have a lead on who it is? I mean you are talking Bale or Starinsky, aren’t you?” she throws back at him.

 

He translates that to mean: ‘Are you after my friend?’ He has to extinguish that flare of envy. He has zero right to her personal life.  He has to trust that she's friends with him for her own valid reasons. “No, I don't know-- not enough evidence. What about you?” His eyes are on the small hands removing the hair elastic from the end of her braid.

 

“You're asking me?” Maka has undone her braid and she shakes out her hair, causing a ripple of wind to go through that wheat gold, sending a thrill through him. “Really, as if you don’t know who  _ I _ think is behind it?” 

 

“Fair-- but I need proof.” Soul swallows hard and very carefully adjusts the knuckles of his good hand so he can bite down his growing problem. Of course, Maka would be the one to make his kink impossible to control, and god he feels like a sack of shit. He’s never had a problem with it before. He’s going through scales in his head, the minor ones. 

 

In an effort to ignore her combing her fingers through her hair, he clears his throat louder than he’d intended. “Can you tell me about Lieutenant Starinsky?” he asks, and breathes a sigh relief as she finally leaves her hair alone. 

 

“What’s there to tell? I’m surprised he hasn’t vomited his life story to you yet,” she says simply before she sighs. “Star’s a friend. Actually, he’s more than that, he was my frat brother in college. He’s been with me through some very tough times.” 

 

“Is, ah--” He wants to ask but it’s also none of his business “--Kid a part of those tough times?”

 

She shakes her head. “Ah, no, my parents.” Maka looks up at him. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about Kid. Anyway-- tonight, the case--” she says, effectively rerouting them “--are the forklifts connected with the heroin? I don’t see the point?” 

 

“Diversion to search my quarters,” Soul says, although he still isn’t sure how exactly wrong his idea about Kid is.

 

“Seriously?” Maka asks. 

 

“Yeah, someone definitely searched my room while we were out playing demon dodgeball with the forklifts.” Soul reaches down to slip his credentials back into his boot. “I’m guessing they were searching for their own evidence.” 

 

“Someone’s on to you,” she says, matter of fact. 

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, impressed with how fast she pieces things, “and I’m not taking any more chances.” 

 

Not that he’s ever taken many. But the person he’s after knows how to watch their six. His gut is the only evidence he needs to know that the forklifts are connected to the drugs. 

 

“Holy  _ shit!” _ Maka’s face goes deathly pale, and for a second Soul thinks she’s going to throw up. 

 

He leans forward trying to assess what’s going on before he gently takes her shoulders in his hands searching her eyes. “Are you okay? Maka, is it your head?” he asks.

 

She doesn’t respond. 

 

Then, he takes her hands squeezing tightly, as fear grips him. “Maka, what’s  _ wrong _ ?”

 

Her lashes flutter as she finally focuses on his eyes. “The watch bill!”

 

Soul is beyond confused. “The sick sailor? I don’t understand.”

 

“No,” Maka says. “Not the enlisted watch bill-- the Officers! Starinsky and I are in the same section, when I’m on the bridge, he’s in radar. The point is, we rotate together.” 

 

Understanding dawns on Soul. “So when you’re on watch-- he’s on watch.”

 

Maka nods.

 

Fuck-- that makes sense. Soul has spent the week glued to her side, where she goes, Starinsky does as well. That means he wouldn’t have been able to search his quarters when they were on bridge. It means a diversion would have been necessary-- a damage control diversion-- to ensure Soul would be out of the way. Which also means--  _ fuck--  _ if he’d just listened to Maka when she told him to stay put-- no one would have been there to push her out of the way. Unconsciously, Soul links his fingers into hers. “Wait-- what about Bale?”

 

She shakes her head. “He’s in section three. Starinsky, you, and I are in section two.” Maka is smoothing the pads of her fingers over his palms, and it’s sweet torture because he doesn’t know if she realizes what she’s doing. “Look, I still don’t think Benji is the one doing this. I know him, when he’s not aboard, he’s home surfing or at the gym. Plus, he’d have a hard time pulling this over Bale  _ once _ , let alone on a regular basis.”

 

Soul scoffs and tries to cover with a cough. Maka laughs in amusement, squeezing his hand. “What? You think because Bale is gross that he isn’t smart?” She glares at him but it’s in jest. “I thought you undercover guys knew better.”

 

“Ouch,” he says, and squeezes her hands back. “You wound me, hitting below the belt like that. I’ve the same concerns it’s just--” he can’t help the grin “--you’re the last person I expected to defend him.”

 

“Oh,” Maka laughs. “I’m not defending him. Bale is the senior lieutenant in the NSF-- the division officer. A classic type A, micro-manager. Nothing comes out of that compartment that doesn’t go through him first.”

 

All of which leads Soul back to square one, _fuck_. “Then which one am I after?” 

 

Maka’s face splits into a hint of a dangerous smile-- the same one she used when she thought no one was watching in her office when she got Bale good. The one Soul has really grown to like.

 

“Well, there’s only one way to find out if the drugs are there,” Maka says, slipping her hand out of his and leaning back on the bulkhead. “We’re just going to have to get you past that second door.”  

 

Fuck him, he likes it a lot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Please give thanks for all the comma errors that were corrected by the bestest betas out there. Honestly, I just don't see it sometimes. Plus I write with all sorts of weird pauses in my head that tend to be comma splices. Again-- thank you for reading, and those of you who comment make my day! 
> 
> PII-- personal identifiable information 
> 
> So, heh, I feel like I'm going back to the back in the day ff.net mode of writer commenting in the notes. If it's annoying and you'd prefer response to the comment thread I can do that too. blue_wynter omg, I'm all about that authentic communication! SaiyajiPrincessChichi, *eyebrow waggle* =D SleepingbeautyK, !!!! wordless hype at your comment.


	9. Chapter 9

“Well, look what the tide dragged in,” Liz says, looking up from her desk. “I was wondering when you were going to show today.”

Since she’s still going through paperwork, Maka hovers outside of her door, ignoring the ocean pun, until Liz clears away the file she’s working on. “It’s been a long day,” Maka huffs, finally slumping into one of the chairs in her friends office.

“I’m sorry, babe. You’ve been through a lot-- wanna talk about it?” Liz asks, appraising Maka’s dejected figure. 

What’s there to talk about? Maka thinks as she avoids eye contact. There’s no way to tell her best friend and fellow officer that she’s spent most of the afternoon hatching a covert plan to break the resident Hollywood pretty boy-- though he isn’t exactly what he’s pretending to be-- into the ship’s nuclear spaces so he can figure out which of their fellow officers is actually spending their days running heroin on and off the ship. She. Just. Can’t.

Maka sits frustrated, wondering how her life has brought her to this moment across from Liz, lying by omission, until suppressed air rushes from her nostrils in a hiss. 

“That bad?” Liz asks, concern evident in her tone.

‘That bad’ might not entirely scratch the surface. Maka has issues forgiving herself for even the most minimal mistakes-- this one is on a whole other level. “You could say that,” she says, after a minute. 

“I wish there was a way to make colds not exist…” Liz says, trailing off with a far off look in her eye. 

“What?” Maka doesn’t understand.

Liz’s shoulders heave with a heavy sigh. “Oh, ignore me. It’s something I said to my mom when I was really little.” Maka sits still in her chair-- Liz never speaks about her mother. The doctor shakes her head and turns her attention back to Maka.

Maybe she doesn’t understand it completely, but Maka gets the sentiment. That feeling of wanting to make things a little better for someone else. Liz has always been there for her, doing exactly that. But she doesn’t have anything to say.

“Well, if we’re at the bottom of the barrel things can only go up, right?” Liz says brightly, drumming manicured nails on her desk.

No. “Maybe.” Maka is skeptical, because shit days tend to stick for whatever reason. 

The good doctor leans in closer. Staring at Maka’s stitches, Liz gives a low whistle. “Damn, I’m a sexy seamstress.” 

Sincere laughter bubbles out of Maka involuntarily now that the conversation has been redirected. “Incredibly modest, too.” 

“I know, right?” Liz waggles her perfect eyebrows at Maka. “Other words to describe myself-- thoughtful--”

Maka snorts, cutting her off. “Oh yeah? I don’t recall that one being on the list,” she ribs her.

“That’s cold, Maka--” That look Liz uses to shut up fuck boys is trained onto her but Maka doesn’t cower “--Just for that, I’m not giving you your birthday gift,” Liz pouts. 

Of course Maka has forgotten her own birthday, and starts protesting immediately. “Wait-- that’s not fair. You set me up! Also-- you owe me. I just spent the last twenty minutes listening to Bale bitch about how he had to pull my watch last night because you wouldn’t let me on the bridge.” She follows this with big, watery puppy eyes. 

“You’re evil. You know that, right?” Liz caves, sighing dramatically as she hands over a gift wrapped box. 

“You love me.” Maka grins, tapping on her box excitedly.

“Maybe a little.” The blonde doctor smiles like a cheshire cat. “And-- part two of your gift is cocktails at Starlight when we pull into port. Will that appease you for dealing with Noah?” 

“I suppose,” Maka says, sticking her tongue out at Liz before she opens the box to reveal new wrist wraps-- she’s been complaining about replacing her old ones forever and there’s also a gift card for a gel manicure at Liz’s favorite salon. “Awwh, you’re the best.” She leans over to give her friend a hug. “You even threw in that muscle tape!”

Ruffled feathers now smoothed, Liz says, “See-- now you can look hot while kicking ass.” 

“Wait, what’s this?” Maka asks as her finger brush over brown wrapping paper in the exact shape of a book. Eagerly, she tears off the paper to reveal a nondescript, paperback book below with a crinkled brown paper bag like cover and a fake post-it note that reads: This is so not a textbook. No title.

“Oh, yanno,” Liz says, slyly with a very wide smile that makes Maka’s blood pressure drop. Then her face goes from pale to beet red in a matter of moments. 

“You didn’t!” Maka gasps, because Liz knows about Maka’s thing about dirty novels. 

The older blonde continues, “In case you need ideas-- it’s steamy. I read it ages ago.”

“I was about to say I could kiss you for the wraps and tape, but now--” Now that’s the furthest thing from Maka’s mind. 

There’s laughter from Liz’s side of the desk. “Please-- save those kisses for someone else!”

The black clouds return with a gut sinking feeling of vulnerability attached to it. Lord-- Maka’s wave of self deprecation threatens to take her under. She isn’t going to be that stupid again. She can just see his plan unfold in her head-- step one, get on board. Step two-- get close to her, for whatever reason? Step three-- what?? Get in her pants??? “Don’t hold your breath.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Liz carefully studies a flawless fingernail and Maka cringes having spoken her thought aloud. “I’d say Soul was very eager to take over my post last night.”

Yeah, the bitterness wells up again. It was all a part of his covert plan, wasn’t it? And the whole situation stings. The disgust she feels somewhere deep inside comes out of her throat in a disgruntled growl. 

“You are not a happy camper today, are you?” Liz asks, and then her voice turns to concern. “Maka, were you able to sleep at all?” Petulance is not an attractive quality, and Maka knows this, but she still can’t make words. “Did something happen?” Liz asks, drawing out the ‘i’.

Nothing she can talk about. “No.” It’s at this point that Liz reaches over, placing two slender fingers on her wrist while she stares at her watch. “Whaaaat are you doing?” 

“Oh, yanno, validating that ‘no’,” she continues, holding her fingers to the wrist. “Last time you said nothing happened he laid a twenty on you.” 

Flushing, Maka yanks her wrist away. Collecting her gifts back into the box, she wads up the brown paper the book had been wrapped in. This, she launches at Liz. 

“Hey! Cut me a break, I haven’t gotten any in sooo long,” she whines, laughing. 

Maka points at her stitches. “What, so last night didn’t count?” she says, grinning widely at her friend. “I mean, you looked pretty hyped about that needlework.” And while this is fun-- she has a mission to complete. “Alright, doc, am I cleared to stand the bridge watch tonight? Or aren’t I?”

“You’re so stubborn, you know you really could use a full night’s rest,” Liz grumbles.

“Ain’t no rest for the wicked,” Maka says, lightly. “Besides, I’ve a drill I need to run later tonight.”

“Cancel it, or at least postpone it,” Liz counters.

“No can do,” Maka shrugs, lightly. “Tonight’s the last night I can run it before we head back into port.” Lies. All lies. They’ve become her reality. 

Her friend isn’t caving. “You could do it tomorrow during the day.” 

“Lizzy, please.” And, perhaps she’s used too much sugar because Dr. Thompson’s shrewd blue eyes narrow.

“What’s really going on, Maka?”

The corners of Maka’s mouth go down, but she hopes it’s a convincing ruse with her shrug. “Why would you think something’s going on?”

It’s a testament to their friendship that Liz levels her with a salty stare. “You can barely sit up straight and you’ve turned down the offer for extra sleep-- which we all know is your MO. But, it’s the fact that you’re lying to me.” The color drains from Maka’s face as she stares at Liz without a word. “So, you tell me, am I wrong?” 

The ache that started at the time of Soul’s confession makes its way to the front of Maka’s consciousness. Liz is right. She’s beyond shot, frayed nerves, the whole nine yards. Not trusting herself to say anything, she keeps her mouth sealed shut. 

The manicured nails tap on the desk as Liz waits for a response, and then suddenly stop. “Guess not--”

The seconds tick by in Maka’s head; she reaches six before Liz says, “Let me ask you this-- are you honestly capable to drive the ship tonight?” 

Damn. Liz has her there. Damage Control includes herself-- “If I take a nap.” It’s the first truthful thing she’s said.

“Ugh.” Blue eyes are rolled at her, and Liz sighs. “You need to take that nap now. I’ll tell Captain Buttataki, he can give you the keys to the ship and you can stay out late.” 

There is zero doubt in Maka’s mind that Liz is waifu material. “You’re the best!” she says, jumping out of the chair and heading towards the door before Liz has the time to change her mind. 

“Would it’ve killed her to react like that to my gift--” The rest of Liz’s muttered response is cut off as her office door closes behind Maka.

 

“Yo, Eater, wait up!” A loud voice calls out.

Soul looks down the passageway outside of the wardroom. There’s a shock of strawberry blonde coming at him, so he stops to give Lieutenant Starinksy a chance to catch up.

“Where ya headed?” Starinsky asks, holding up a hand.

To the land of Nonya, Soul thinks, but dutifully jerks his head in the direction of the ladder. “To catch some z’s, man. Why, what’s up?”

Starinsky smirks as he palms Soul something hard and possibly metallic. “Sweet. Here, you’re gonna need this-- tonight’s the night,” he says, the excited movement of his eyebrows make Soul feel uncomfortable. 

Uhh-- fuck! With the events of last night, and the forty-five minutes of sleep he’d gotten, the mutilated dummy has completely slipped his mind. Meaning, he’s also forgotten the date. 

Maka’s birthday. 

He knows through tactile exploration what is in his hand, but his body stiffens anyway. A key. “Where’d’ya get this?” he asks, trying to make his body relax as he slips it into the pocket of his coveralls.

“Bale-- dude, don’t tell Maka, she’ll blow a gasket,” Starinsky says with a wide grin.

Fuck that, Soul needs to find the pressure relief valve in his own system before he blows a gasket. Why the fuck does Noah have a key to Maka’s stateroom?! And, does he have one to his own room as well? Seriously-- motive, means, and motherfucking opportunity. Soul doesn’t think he has the self control or patience to wait until tonight to get into the NSF-- he wants to rip that place apart now!

But, if he can’t do that, he may as well do an impromptu interrogation of the good lieutenant in the form of what Soul hopes passes as small talk. Keeping his tone casual, he asks. “So, what’s with you and Maka-- you guys seem to go way back...” He lets the hook dangle.

The man guffaws. “Nice try, bruh. I’m already in deep shit for what I said last night. Maka can tell you what she feels like sharing.” 

Aaaand, that took a ninety degree turn in a different direction, Soul thinks. “Huh, she made it seem like... how serious is this Kid?” he asks, switching his line of reasoning mid train of thought.

“Very,” Starinksy says, without a hint of sarcasm, but he’s appraising Soul studiously as if he’s trying to see what sort of motive is behind the question. “Look man, uh, you’re cool and all, buuut, that’s not gonna happen--” Soul is burning to ask what he means by that, but before he can, Benjamin continues “--Maka is family. She was my pledge sister. We joined the Praetorian Guard together-- not sure you get that. She’s been there for me, always. We’ve saved each others asses more than a few times. Kapeesh?”

Somewhere in the black room the green eyed monster of jealousy rears its ugly head. Damn, he gets it. “Yeah, man.” 

They’ve made it to the row of staterooms and Starinksy stops to unlock his door before he turns back to Soul. “Excellent. One more thing, Eater. Maka likes you-- in case you’re daft-- I know you might not know it-- but, I know it.” His face goes from jovial to ice in point oh two, and Soul feels a chill go down his back. “Here’s the thing, though, not that she needs anyone fighting her fights. She doesn’t. But-- if you hurt her-- I will hunt you down and make you disappear.” His face goes back to a genuine grin that makes the atmosphere somehow even colder. “Into teeny tiny pieces,” he says, to clear up any confusion.

Soul laughs uncomfortably. “Okay, but what if she’s the one that hurts me?”

A massive hand claps him on the shoulder. “Oh man, the stories I could tell you--”

Whatever those stories are, they’re cut off by the public address system blaring: “Lieutenant Starinsky, please dial two, five, six, four.”

There’s an audible groan from the vicinity of his peripheral. “Aaaaand there goes my nap. Oh captain, my captain.” The steel door snaps shut as the boisterous lieutenant relocks it. “Peace out, homie.” He throws a wave as he heads back the way they came.

Soul returns the gesture, but doesn’t waste time as he heads back towards his own room. There’s no reason to access Starinsky’s room. It was one of the first ones he cleared his first few nights aboard. Picked the lock-- twice now. Didn’t turn up anything, unfortunately. Then again, he’d struck out in Bale’s as well. 

 

Maka is trying to get her emotions in order as she heads to her rendezvous with Soul. His door opens immediately after her first knock, leaving her a little breathless with her knuckles still raised mid- knock.

“You're late,” he says, face stormy. 

Something about his tone evokes her mother’s displeasure, and without thinking she quips, “Sorry mom.” The flare of emotion dies on her face when he doesn’t rise to the sarcasm. He’s normally the one baiting her. It's hard to place the attitude… unless. “Something happened?”

“Get in here,” he says as he hands her a key for her inspection. 

Maka removes her new ball cap off her head, rubbing at the skin above the stitches. Confusion is making it difficult to process why he’s handed her a key to his stateroom and she says as much.

“It isn’t to my room,” Soul says, quietly. Maka watches his eyes follow her hand to the stitches with that look of frustration, like he’s the one that gave them to her. “It’s the key to yours.” Her eyes narrow and she stares at him, wondering exactly what’s going on. “It was a gift, from Starinksy,” he explains.

“Liz doesn’t even have a key to my room,” she says, on the border of exploding. 

Anticipating her next question, Soul says. “He apparently got it from Bale.” 

Bale-- Noah?! A chill goes through her. “I’m going to kill that bastard.” With the sound of her teeth grinding loudly in her head she barely catches Soul’s angry, “Get in line.”

Tension has her wound tight. Surely that concern on his face can’t be for her sake. Doesn’t he know he doesn’t have to pretend anymore? Perplexed by the enigma that is Soul, Maka turns away from him-- and bursts out laughing.

“Oh-- shit--” Soul says, looking in the same direction as his hand scrubs vigorously through his hair. 

On his rack is the NSF burn dummy, broken eye dangling, laid out on the bed like Burt Reynolds on the bear rug complete with… pink lilies? Now, how would he know? Maka knows her file isn’t that detailed--

“--Starinsky’s idea of a birthday gift,” he says, and Maka breathes a small sigh of relief because that, at least, explains the flowers. Her startled laughter turns genuine. 

“What an idiot,” she says, only mildly aware of Soul observing her morbid sense of humor. Heat on her back makes her turn only to find Soul now standing close to her and looking at her with a different sort of fervor. A small gasp of surprise escapes her.

He stands close, but just outside of her personal bubble, and the burning of his gaze has her heart racing. His voice is low and she feels it mostly in her chest. “Twenty-seven, right?”

It’s hard to think straight when he’s searching her eyes with such a smoldering look, and she feels it clear down to her soul. At any rate, she manages to hum agreement.

“I’d like to take you to dinner when we pull in.” The scent of his cologne is making things difficult to process. “If that’s alright with you?”

Maka latches on to the suggestion like he’s thrown a lifeline. “Of course, Liz just offered the same thing. We can all go... together…” she trails off at the slow shaking of his head.

“I offered to take you, not Liz.” He’s so close, she can feel the warmth of his breath on her bangs as he whispers, “Just you.” 

Is her desire to kiss him drawing him in? The tension is there and she can’t look away from his lips. Has she ever wanted another kiss so badly? In a word-- no. There’s never been anyone like Soul in her life. 

But, that first kiss was just a ploy, wasn’t it? Because he needed her to trust him. 

She’s stopped breathing and doesn’t think she’ll be able to draw another breath until he decides to kiss her or he walks away. Both scenarios will come with pain, but she’ll deal with it. Only, he hasn’t moved, and her eyes flicker back up to his-- he’s waiting? Why? For what? And it dawns on her-- he won’t kiss her unless he knows it’s okay with her-- and all of it leaves her emotionally confused. 

Ever so slowly, pulse racing, Maka leans towards him and hopes that she isn’t wrong. His hands come up towards her face, and she leans into the palm that presses on her cheek-- god she wants. So badly. And for once thinks Liz has a point, about her over thinking things or wanting things she shouldn’t want. 

His rough thumb rubs against her lower lip, erasing all extraneous thoughts with the soft motion. Even the breath she’s been holding escapes with a soft exhalation. Her heart is thudding so hard in her chest, held only in place by the solid jade stone of her necklace. Soul’s eyes are a deep carmine color and she has the sensation of the world ebbing away.

When his lips press ever so softly to hers, Maka melts. Even though her eyes don’t fully close and there’s no cliched fireworks or leg pops or rain-- it feels right. So right-- like she’s home-- and that scares her. 

“Happy birthday, Maka,” Soul brushes his thumb against her lips once more, but this time it trembles as he pulls away from her, voice a little shaky. 

Oh dear lord, she can’t. Except, all of the feelings she won’t allow herself to feel are crashing against the walls she’s been attempting to rebuild around her heart. Because of Soul she’s-- she shouldn’t want a life she’s sworn she’d never want. Not when she’s lived through what it did to her parents. She’s never wanted it before now. It’s more than that, she knows it can’t work.

Maka takes an unsteady step away from Soul, her hand automatically goes to her collar as her fingers slip in under the fabric to tug at her necklace. Shit shit shit. Trying to hang on for sanity’s sake, and she startles when Soul’s hand closes over hers pulling the necklace out the rest of the way.

The jade stone dangles between them and Maka can’t separate the emotions that are entangled in the chain, within her heart, and her hands. 

//

He’s crossed an irrevocable line and still Soul takes everything his heart is trying to say and stuffs it into the black room as he cups the green stone in his free hand. It’s her eyes that have a vice-like grip on his soul. Maka is terrified. There’s fear writhing in the depths of the green, and for the life of him he can’t place where it came from.

Everything he’s learned about Maka in the past few weeks speaks to the bravery and strength and understanding she possesses. Even when faced with fires or four thousand pounds of screaming forklift-- Maka is calm, collected. So to see her so paralyzed baffles him. “There’s a story behind this?” he asks, testing the weight of the stone in his hand.

He knows there is, given how Maka’s eyes dart towards the object in question. It means a great deal to her, that much is evident in the fact that she doesn’t part with it even in uniform. And yet-- and yet, she keeps it hidden away from the eyes of the public. His rough fingers untangle the chain from her slender ones. He wants to wrap the chain around his fingers if only to symbolically show her that he wants to be here, with her. But he isn’t sure if that’s what she wants. “Maka, why do you keep it hidden?”

Her lashes flutter, fanning his desire, but she recovers. “I’m in uniform.”

Those same words might have steered him clear of her weeks ago, but he knows better now. She isn’t his father. Soul isn’t falling for the generic explanation. “But you hide it, even when you’re not?” He doesn’t ask it to push her. He asks because he needs to comprehend. But the question has her narrowing her eyes. 

“And how would you know that, Soul?” she asks defensively. “You’ve only seen me in uniform.” The reaction of his eyebrow and even the fact that his face breaks into a very small grin is involuntary, but even that causes Maka’s face to flush a pink so deep it highlights those freckles he wants to count if only to prove they’re endless, like stars. “And my robe,” she adds, deflating as she corrects herself, not that he was going to. 

The slightly hoarse admission has that sizzling visual swimming before his eyes with a holographic effect and he groans because it’s never going to be the time. Deliberately, he reroutes his dumpster fire. With a deep breath he says, “Only a guess--” a lucky one. He runs his fingers over the length of the chain, thumbing over the stone once more before he places it gently into her hand, and wraps her fingers around it. “Will you tell me, please?” 

He’s not sure she will, but then Maka heaves a sigh, shaking her head. “It’s not a secret. It was my mother’s. Well-- it was my paternal grandmother’s-- my papa gave it to my mother when they started dating.”

And if she hadn’t stuffed the necklace so forcefully back into her uniform or if she hadn’t snatched her ball cap from the desk where it lay forgotten or dug her fingers so deeply into the red of the fabric-- Soul would say there’s nothing more to it. But there is, and he needs to understand-- not for his job’s sake-- but because of the way she can’t or rather won’t meet his eyes. It cuts him in a way he didn’t fathom possible. 

So, he presses gently, “If it’s just a necklace, why hide it?”

Maka slumps down in his rack, shoving the burn dummy aside to make room. “I don’t know.” It’s a small admission. 

“You don’t think I’ll understand?” The question comes out with the sort of agitation he feels towards the Navy. Soul stops. He has no right to her feelings and she shouldn’t have to divulge them, not to him or anyone. “I’m sorry, that was--” presumptuous.

There’s a noise from the rack but Soul doesn’t know if it’s laughter or pain. “I don’t know if I understand it.” 

This time he does ask it. “Navy?”

“No,” she says quietly. “Maybe.” More silence follows as she wrestles with what it is she isn’t sure she wants to share. “I don’t know.” Her hand kneads at the spot between her eyebrows before she reaches out to rip the lilies out of the dummy’s hands and leans against the bulkhead. “It’s a long, messy story.”

Soul takes the chair from the desk and drags it backwards towards the bed, where he sits arms folded on the back rest, chin on arms. “I’m a good listener,” he says. 

Maka might wear a small smile, but she’s threatening to shred the silk flowers apart in her hands. “My mother was barely nineteen when she got pregnant with me.”

“Oh,” Soul says quietly as everything he thought he could have expected is turned on its head.

“Yeah. She was still living at home with her parents going to school when my papa blew into my grandparents restaurant with a group of guys off the ship. Papa always said it was love at first sight and I believed him for the longest of times. But to be honest, Papa’s first love has always been the sea.” 

Soul thinks back to the fear in her face. “Your grandparents must have been unhappy about it, then?”

There’s a small bark of laughter from Maka that has Soul feeling very confused. “Actually, that’s the crazy part. Mama worked even harder at her studies and my grandmother loved caring for me. And Papa has always been extreme in his doting. 

You see my papa’s father was also a sailor who met Grandmother Albarn in much the same way.” Her fingers are picking at the white silk edge of the pink lily petals. “At that time, her father was very strict and it was he who had the say in her relationship. Granddaddy Albarn came to their restaurant every day, sat at the same table every day, until he had to ship out. The family thought that would be the end but he returned six months later with the necklace-- a carved heart of jade for her namesake.” 

Soul is staring at the point where Maka’s pant leg meets her boot. Clearly the Navy has been in her family just as long as it’s been in his, but her story feels so much different. 

“I think my papa was in love with the idea of his parents relationship, so when he met mama, he saw it as a mirror. But, mama isn’t grandmother Jade, and papa’s long absences to sea hardened her. She began to suspect that he wasn’t being faithful and I think that took a toll on my papa-- he’s an insufferable flirt. But, instead of proving his faith he,” she takes a deep sigh. “He decided to prove her right--”

“What?” Soul doesn’t mean to blurt but he can’t help it. Of all the backassward things-- Christ-- 

“I hated him for the longest of time,” Maka admits. “Except, looking back, it’s clear they were both immature and having a baby at nineteen, trying to make ends meet and living with an idea-- it isn’t easy. Mama wasn’t cut out to be maternal-- she’s always worked twice as hard for everything she’s accomplished. She doesn’t care who she has to sever from her life to get there.”

Soul’s eyebrows go up. Surely she doesn’t mean herself? 

“It’s fine-- I’m, fine,” Maka says, but the edges of the flowers have become frayed. “It’s made me who I am today.”

He’s at a complete loss. Soul’s hand rubs the back of his neck. On the surface her story doesn’t sound much different than his. “You said the necklace had belonged to your Grandmother Jade,” he doesn’t want to ask it but he does, “Did her marriage end-- with your grandfather?”

“Oh no, no she and granddaddy Albarn were together until they both passed,” Maka’s hand rubs across her chest. “It’s nuts that I wear it, isn’t it?”

Soul shakes his head, still grasping at straws. The necklace had been given to a beloved grandmother by a besotted grandfather and they’d had a son who was clearly loved. A son who sought to recreate history giving it to Maka’s mother, but where it had worked for his parents it had failed him. Still, Maka’s mother and father had given it to her-- as a commissioning gift. Is there a message the parents are trying to send to their daughter? 

Something like that would make a strong reminder, for her father it clearly represented love but Maka herself said her father had been very immature. For her mother? A constant reminder of the failure of her marriage-- of a daughter she doesn’t have a close relationship with?

If it’s something Maka keeps close, keeps hidden, it might have any number of meanings. “Maka,” he leans closer to her, “what does that necklace mean to you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

He watches her bite her lip, her cheeks flush, and her hands clench and unclench the flowers petals. 

In his soul the black room shudders. A part of him gets it-- he’s never believed in love at first sight. His whole life, he’s hung his hat on the peg of things don’t last. Things break. Only, he knows beyond a shred of doubt that he’s searched for it-- maybe in the beginning it was only to prove it wrong. He shudders, Maka said the same thing about her father. It’s more than that though-- he’s been searching for that reason to leave the office behind at night. For a person he can confide his greatest hopes to-- share his deepest fears with. And maybe, he gave up consciously long ago, but subconsciously he’s never stopped searching. 

The problem is, the same thing he’s hoped for, searched for, is clearly the thing that puts fear into Maka’s heart. 

He gets it. To him love is vulnerability. It’s that possibility of opening yourself only to get hurt. That chance that he’s never been willing to risk. Only now, looking at Maka, Soul knows he’d willingly throw himself in front of any forklift if it meant getting to share some part of her life with her, in whatever capacity she allows him-- without conditions. 

It’s in this moment that he fully comprehends her terror. 

 

Whatever it is she had been dreaming of goes up in smoke. The alarm is blaring-- “Fire, fire, fire. Fire in compartment 5-256-0R the NSF!” Maka gets up, shaking off the effects of the dream-- somewhere dark with a checkered tile floor and jazz, she thinks as she pulls on her boots. Maka exits her stateroom, hoping to reach Damage Control Central Watch before they can repeat the alarm over the public address system. 

Her eyes glance over to Soul’s door as she walks past it and she checks her watch out of habit-- zero-three-hundred hours. 

If things are going right-- and Maka desperately hopes they are-- Mifune has Soul geared up in kevlar firefighter gear, complete with helmet and face shield. And with any luck, and with the help of the ships glycerine smoke generators, he’d be able to walk up to his own mother and she’d fail to recognize him. Which is exactly how they want it.

Maka hooks tired legs over the midships ladder and lands with a thump that echoes in her forehead before crossing the last few feet to undog the watertight door to Central. Petty Officer Giriko holds his hand over the receiver announcing to the room, “DCA’s in Central!” 

She nods in greeting to the three Petty Officer phone talkers-- Giriko, Ford, and D’eclair-- who all have their headsets plugged into the ships fire alarm system. At her station, Maka flips over her ship schematics to reach the fourth deck.

“Well, well if it ain’t Captain Marvel at the helm herself.” Noah walks into Central a disheveled mess. Disregards all present company and unzips his pants to tuck in the tail of his khaki shirt. “Where’s your boy toy, DCA?” He makes a show of looking around. “You leave him warming up your rack?”

“You’re late,” Maka says, ignoring the jab and fighting the wave of nausea he brings. She wishes she’d twisted Liz’s arm for at least some naproxen. 

“And Eater must not live up to the name because you’re on time,” Noah sneers. 

Leave it to Noah to exploit the double entendre of Soul’s name-- not that she hasn’t wondered where or how he got the moniker. Her jaw is starting to ache with how hard she’s clenching it. 

Behind Noah, Petty Officer D’eclair is pantomiming breaking his neck. And because Ford has failed to control his untimely titter, Noah turns around. Harvar jerks his arms into some awkward stretch and Giriko focuses hard on a spot on his work station while trying to keep his own mouth shut. 

“So, where is Hollywood?” Noah asks.

It’s her own fault for dubbing him that, but Maka hates that Noah uses the nickname she’s given Soul. You’d shit uranium if you knew, she thinks. She takes the first set of messages from the phone talkers and flips through them slowly to negate the anxiety she’s feeling. “Like you said, probably still sleeping.”

It’s a welcome relief turning her back on Noah to mark up the schematic with the current information. She draws up the symbols tracking the progress of the drill-- electrical has been secured, she notes that fire and smoke barriers have been set.

In her mind’s eye she tracks Mifune and Soul’s progress per the plan they laid out. Any moment now her Chief will get through the first cipher lock and lead Soul through the second. That had been a fun conversation-- Maka trusts Toshiro Mifune with her life, but Soul had taken some convincing. In the end they’d reached the crux of the problem-- TPI stands for Two Person Integrity, not one. With her manning the drill from Central-- they were one body short. 

Her thoughts are interrupted as Noah invades her field of vision, resting his forearm over her charts. “I’m just flabbergasted Eater isn’t here. I could’ve sworn this would be the one drill he wouldn’t pass up.” Noah examines his fingernails and picks at a cuticle with his teeth, flicking whatever skin he pulled off onto the charts.

Her pencil hovers for a minute before Maka scrawls orders on the message blank and hands it to the outgoing phone talker. “Why’s that?” she asks, keeping her breathing even.

“Didn’t he tell you?” The look of superiority has her stomach feeling unsettled. “Eater has a giant boner for the cloak and dagger side of the fleet.” Her eyes roll, but she manages to keep her focus on writing. Noah continues, “That or he’s extremely bored…” He lets it hang as if waiting for her to look up. And like an idiot she does. “...I mean it’s not like you and I both don’t know--” the way he looks at her chest mouthing the words tiny tits leaves her feeling transparent “--you don’t have much to keep anyone interested, do you?” 

Maka shoves his arm out of the way so she can update the chart, visualizing the many ways she could take him out without it being traced back to her, her jaw grinding all the while. Focusing on the black of the grease pencil as she updates the chart, Maka finally recovers enough to smile at Noah. “I know it’s standard procedure that you show up when the NSF is on fire-- but do you really have to talk? You’re using up enough resources as is.”

 

Behind them, Giriko mutates his scoff into a hacking cough. All three Petty Officers look down quickly to study notes.

Noah glares at the trio before he says, “Very funny--” 

“DCA, the hose team has accessed NSF-- they have the fire under control!” Harvar shouts, cutting off Bale and looking just a shade too gleeful about it. She nods as she adds the symbol to her chart. Her head hurts and she fervently hopes that Noah will eventually tire of his harassment and head to the Chief Engineer’s Office for the remainder of the drill, like he normally does.

The latter ignores him and turns back to Maka. No such luck, she thinks. “You know what I wonder?” he asks the deaf ears of all in Central. 

“Surprisingly-- I don’t,” Maka says evenly, rubbing at the skin above the stitches as she continues to track the drill. 

Apparently, it isn’t the response Noah had hoped for, but he’s committed to his initial prodding and goes on. “How does a guy with, supposedly, all the right connections, end up on a woman’s ship?” 

That?! She nearly snorts-- that’s what he’s been losing sleep over-- Maka makes it a point to stand in Noah’s personal bubble. “Wow, you’re right? How does a bright officer with all of his shit together end up on a non-combatant, instead of, you know, a nuclear-powered cruiser?”

It takes him a moment, since he clearly miscalculated this line of reasoning, and he’s reduced to an ugly scowl. Not that she can be bothered to care about his problems. Maka has her own set in the form of a very silent radio attached to her waist. 

The fact that Mifune hasn’t sent her an update has her wondering whether or not Soul has found anything. Noah stifles a yawn, drawing her attention back to the issue at hand. If he would just leave, she’ll be able to call for an update herself. 

“Not all of us get off on sleep deprivation, DCA,” he says, leveling her with a look of disgust. “I’m out.” 

Inside she’s cheering, but on the outside she gives him shit. “You’re supposed to stay until the fire is overhauled-- it isn’t out,” she says, dripping as much acid as she can into the words.

“What’s your point? I have to stop by my office anyway. If your guys are any good, by the time I reach the NSF it will be.” He gives her a smarmy grin as he drops the bomb at her feet. Then, Noah shoves open the door to Central and blows her a kiss as he steps over the lip.

Think. Think. Think! Maka forces herself to count to ten before she rips off her radio. “Chief, you there?”

The seconds tick by, grating on her nerves as she thinks of how to warn them. Finally, it crackles to life. “Right here, DCA. What can I do ya for?”

The edge of her pencil taps the schematics, and with the inversion of the words she knows something isn’t right. She studies the charts intently. “Oh, ya know, wondering what the hold up is. Lieutenant Bale got so bored he’s abandoned ship.”

She’s knows Mifune’s laugh well enough to know that one was forced. “Oh , we can’t have that now-- can we? We’ll get this wrapped up--” There’s a loud crash followed by an equally loud curse from-- Soul!-- that drowns out whatever he was about to say next. With a rushed, “Gotta go, DCA,” the radio cuts out, leaving Maka in silence, without even static.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it took me over a month to write this chapter last fall, and it's taken just as long to post. Sometimes words are like that. Hope you enjoyed it. As always, thanks so much to the wonderful betas who go through this, I appreciate your grammar guidance so much. <3


	10. Chapter 10

“ _ Fucking fuck!” _ Soul curses, trying to shield himself as metal boxes and canisters rain down around his feet. So much for Starinsky and Bale securing the NSF storage containers for sea.

 

“You alright over there?” Mifune asks, while he attempts to shepherd strewn canisters back to their rightful locations. 

 

Soul grunts acknowledgement and braces himself for the next wave that slams into the ship. He grits his teeth as he works the lock in hand. It finally springs open and he unhooks the lid to look inside--

 

Nothing--  _ Fuck!!! _

 

He’s been at this for the better part of an hour with absolute shit to show for it. Soul hasn’t come across any shred of evidence that will tie either lieutenant to the Black Blood. 

 

Unfortunately, by the time he’d finished tossing the coveted second room, he was beyond pissed that he’d started there in the first place. Not that there’d been time to vent his frustration about it, so he’d moved back to the first office and started working on the canisters in the gray cabinets there. 

 

Soul closes the box and reaches for another. It rankles, to no end, that Noah had been on the money about one thing-- the second room was  _ the  _ most boring classified area he’s ever searched. Given his occupation, he’s had the privilege of searching many, and as far as he’s concerned, Maka’s job is a whole helluva lot more interesting. Pick. Spring. Open. Rinse. Repeat.

 

_ Goddamnit-- _ still nothing!

 

He replaces the lock and reaches for another, while Mifune stuffs more canisters back on the shelf. “That was DCA,” he says, continuing to stack containers. “She said Lieutenant Bale is on his way-- we need to wrap this up.”

 

Soul’s hands are working as fast as he can, his pick catches and he twists the lock off in a fluid motion. Pops the lid open to, yet again, nothing. Wordless frustration shakes the black room. But-- there’s something off about this one. He isn’t sure if it’s the stress or the anxiety by this point, but on gut feel alone he reaches in and taps on the bottom of the container, elated at the hollow sound that finally indicates he’s on to _something_. Carefully, Soul runs a finger along the inside the box until he locates it-- a small metal tab. Heartbeat rushing in his ears, Soul lifts out the false bottom and there it is-- _Black Blood_. 

 

A mad grin splits his face. Christ-- there has to be at least four units in there. And still uncut, by the molted look of light and black-- hence the name. 

 

“Son, we’ve got to go,” Mifune says. “ _ Now!” _

 

He knows, but there’s something he needs to do. “Another minute,” Soul says, holding up his hand. “I just--”

 

\-- _ Game over. _

 

An angry voice cuts through the bulkhead. “Are you  _ fucking  _ kidding me? I can’t believe it. You asshats did it again!”

 

**_Bale_ ** _. _

 

Keeping his cool, Soul snaps the false bottom back in place, re-locks the box and slides it to the rear of the cabinet. 

 

“I swear to god if I find one fucking drop of water on the deck when I come out, I’m going to dry it with your face!” There’s no time to empathize with the poor sap on the receiving end of Bale’s wrath; Soul has his own shit to deal with.

 

Mifune is two steps ahead of him, motioning under the desk when he turns around. It isn’t easy to fold and tuck his six foot plus frame into that space, but he manages, only to have Mifune stuff a chair in after him. Soul hangs onto it with his left hand like it’s a life preserver, all the while trying to reach his boot with his right. 

 

The cipher lock buzzes and in walks a pair of scuffed black boots. “My office?! Gaw--  _ damn-- awwh c’mon _ , Chief! Fucking hell-- can’t you run a drill without trashing the place?” Lieutenant Bale complains loudly.

 

“Accidents happen, Lieutenant,” Mifune responds, with a level of apathy that makes Soul feel like he’s a kid hyped up on sugar. He’d wager the Chief’s toothpick didn’t dip once with any of the syllables he uttered.

 

There’s a scoff from the other side of the desk. “Accident, my ass. DCA put you up to this, didn’t she?” he accuses. 

 

Mifune ignores him; Soul watches helplessly as his hand comes down to retrieve another handful of canisters.

 

There’s more groaning from the vicinity of the desk. “Who the fuck’s gear is on my desk?” Lieutenant Bale asks angrily.

 

_ Son of a--  _ Soul resists the urge to face plant into the deck. Noah must be referring to the helmet and gloves he’d placed on the desk--  _ his gear! _

 

There’s no way in hell Mifune will be able to pass it off as his own. For one thing, the Chief isn’t in the bulky overalls that go with it-- Soul is. 

 

Twisting his body ever so slowly, Soul works himself down into a hybrid variation of  _ dying- _ cat-in-child’s pose, where his face is now lower than his knees. His left cheek grafted to the deck, leaving zero room for the Holy Spirit as Sister Sarah used to tell the kids at the chaperoned school dances his family forced him to attend. Neck and left shoulder are now screaming, but at least he isn’t blind; he can barely see through the small slit under the desk, watching helplessly as Mifune grabs the helmet off the desk, stares at it, before he slams it down on the surface in a show of agitation. 

 

“Hiro’s. That boy-- I swear it, when the good Lord handed out brains, I swear that kid thought he said trains and missed his,” the Chief says. “I’ll have a conversation with him-- soon.” 

 

In a tone that reads  _ what the fuck _ are you talking about old man _?  _ Bale says, “Just get rid of it, and while you’re at it, make sure that shit in the passageway gets taken care of too.” 

 

Another wave hits the ship, and given Soul’s level 20 Twister position, they aren’t doing his stomach any favors. He tries to tamp down the renewed surge of nausea, because now would be the worst time to turn green. 

 

The swell has a second, more sinister effect as the remaining canisters break loose. Every muscle in Soul’s body tenses as one container keeps on rolling, ignorant of every fiber in his being willing it to stop. He ticks off the remaining distance-- five feet, four feet, three-- two-- 

 

Only a second before it goes under, Mifune’s hand snatches it away.

 

_ Fuck this shit _ , Soul thinks as he lets out a painful breath. It’s been years since he’s felt so naked-- so painfully exposed. He plays another round of Twister, jamming his right hand between his legs, fighting against the bulky material of the Kevlar until he reaches into his boot, palming the familiar butt of his Glock and easing it out of the holster--  _ now  _ he’s dressed. 

 

Soul eases the pistol from his boot as Mifune walks the canister back to the cabinet, ambling every so slowly.  _ Atta boy, _ if the Chief keeps this up maybe Bale will split.

 

“Awwh, for the love of-- stop! Just stop--  **Stop!** I’ll clean this shit up. I’d like to see my rack before the Second Coming, fucking hell,” he says angrily.

 

_ Well, this is it,  _ thinks Soul.  

 

However,  Mifune’s selective hearing has apparently kicked in, because he continues to pick up canisters like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Don’t let me stop you, Lieutenant, I’ll have this place cleaned up in a few minutes or so.”

 

Only, it looks like the good Lieutenant doesn’t have a minute. “I said  _ out.  _ That’s an order,” he barks. 

 

The muscles in Soul’s neck are starting to spasm from the abuse. Soul listens helplessly as Bale stuffs the gloves into the helmet and shoves the helmet into Mifune’s chest, escorting the man to the door. There’s the electronic click of the cipher locks followed by Bale forcing Mifune out roughly.  _ Fuck. Fuck! Fuuuck!!! _

 

With Mifune gone, Soul is done for. When the lock reengages he knows his options are nil. He’s trapped and overheating-- and between the desk and the Kevlar overalls-- he’s worse off than a half fucked fox in a forest fire. Sweat is beading up on his forehead and trickling between shoulder blades, pooling in every available crevice as his body attempts self water torture. 

 

Soul grinds his teeth, and another canister succumbs to the swells. Back to square one where he’s watching helplessly as the canister closes the distance. If he didn’t know any better he’d swear the metal bastards are out to oust him. 

 

He breathes a silent prayer of thanks as Noah snatches it before it can roll under, but then retracts it as Noah slams it on the desk above his head. The canister wobbles and then promptly flies off and hits the desk next to him. Soul watches transfixed with horror as it executes a mesmerizing rendition of spin the bottle coming to rest mere inches from his head like fingers pointed directly between his eyes.   

 

Soul eases the gun into place, drawing a deep breath as he steadies his careful aim on the hand that follows the canister under the desk...

 

The instant the drill concludes, Maka slams her schematics shut, flicking the latch. She doesn’t even bother cleaning them. “That’s a wrap, Central! Re-stow your gear and hit your racks,” she announces to the room as she makes a bee line to the water tight door.

 

“Ma’am, you alright?” Petty Officer Harvar asks, but Maka waves him off. No, no she is not alright. 

 

“Tired is all. See you in a few hours,” she says, giving him an apologetic smile, because she wants to leave Central behind as fast as possible. As soon as she rounds the corner, she takes off at a jog for the repair locker. 

 

She’s not going to panic-- she is not. Even though it’s only been fifteen minutes since she’d lost contact with Chief Mifune it feels more like a lifetime now. Her chief best have a good explanation when she does find him since she’s lost a year off her life due to the stress or he might not live to tell the tale. 

 

Maka turns the corner and runs straight into her Senior Petty Officer. “Hiro, where’s Chief Mifune?” she asks, voice colored by anxiety and surprise.

 

The young man’s baby blue eyes widen. “I don’t know-- I thought he was with you, ma’am. I had to debrief the guys on station and had them restore their gear because Chief never showed. I tried him on the radio-- I got nothing.”

 

_ If Mifune is missing? Then where’s Soul? _ Maka thinks, looking over the locker where most of the gear is already in place.  _ What happened? _

 

Soul was supposed to have blown into Central at the last minute looking disheveled and apologetic for missing the entire drill-- not that Hiro can know. It’s not like she can ask for  _ Hollywood’s  _ whereabouts because no one is supposed to know where Soul’s been. This makes him extremely late-- he hadn’t shown at all.

 

Her heart is beating sporadically with the stress but Maka forces a smile anyway. “Maybe I missed him. If you run into him, tell him I need to speak with him, alright?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds. 

 

Maka closes the door to the locker, dodging a stack of helmets, and the rack of firefighter uniforms to grab the phone. Panic pushes at the door of her mental closet after the fourth call-- they’re not in the chief’s lounge, Mifune’s office, nor the Chief’s stateroom, or Soul’s... 

 

Her teeth worry at her thumbnail--  _ Where the hell  _ are _ they? _ It’s not like she can sit around waiting. Her mind is already spinning with possibilities--  _ her _ stateroom! Of course, with the drill over it’s probably the best place to regroup. In her mind, they’re already on their way there.

 

This line of logic helps stave off the edge of panic, and she repeats the line of reasoning like a mantra for her sanity as she makes her way through the ship. Only, she’d moved too quickly to let her eyes adjust properly so by the time Maka reaches the officer’s country above the main deck she’s reduced to feeling her way along the passageway. The retina scarring brightness of the locker room has destroyed her night vision but she makes it to the dimly lit passageway only to find it empty. Her hope further dashed as the new wave of panic crashes against the mental closet. 

 

There isn’t even a friendly telltale strip of light under Soul’s door when she stops there-- she’d hoped, but there’s nothing. 

 

Her shoulders sag. Maka doesn’t want to return to her stateroom and makes an uncharacteristic last second decision to wait out their return in Soul’s room. Maybe being surrounded by a space inhabited by him will help quell the rising terror she doesn’t want to over analyze. Even if it means she’ll have to resort to lying when he inevitably finds her there. Because there’s no way she’s going to tell him she feels more safe in his room than in her own.

 

In her chest her heart is fluttering madly, but the door is locked when she softly jiggles the handle.  _ Shit-- _ not that she had expected it to be open. Three breaths later, she unhooks her keys from her waist as she fingers the brass until she locates the DCA master key and inserts it into the lock, her blood rushing in her ears. Maka hasn’t needed anything in her life as much as she needs to know that he’s okay-- and she hopes he doesn’t see this as a violation of his privacy, but she’s completely out of options. Quietly, she opens the door enough to slip inside. 

 

The moment she's through, a rough hand clamps down over her mouth-- her instincts scream,   _ It’s a trap _ . But, there’s zero time to berate her stupidity as she’s yanked back hard and almost loses her balance. Fight trumps flight, and Maka rights herself enough to pivot, bringing her knee up with her.

 

Her attacker anticipates the move, and shoves her knee down between their legs, clamping strong thighs around it. Still night blind, Maka can’t see shit, but lack of sight doesn’t stop her from trying to claw at the face. She curses non-existent night vision, because she still can’t make out her assailant. 

 

Not that it matters if she doesn’t know who the hell she’s fighting-- whoever they are, they aren’t getting the best of her. She still has cards to play. 

 

Tightening her hand around the keys she miraculously didn’t drop, Maka splays them wide on the ring and uses them as impromptu brass knuckles and thrusts the keys into the general vicinity of her attackers waist. She drives them in hard, and twists them sharply, to great effect, eliciting a hoarse grunt. This is followed by a raw hiss when Maka rips them up diagonally across their abdomen from hip to shoulder. They still aren't relenting but she isn't done yet-- now that their mind is elsewhere, it’s time to end this. 

 

The one thing Papa had taught her was go for the nuts, but only after distracting. And she intends to leave this asshole gelded. However, they become aware of her objective-- hand abandoning mouth to turn to steel clamped on her wrist a split second before she can make contact. So she sucks in a deep breath, intending to wake the dead--

 

“ _Fuck--_ ** _Maka!_** _”_ The voice vibrates in her chest. “It’s _me._ ” 

 

The harsh whisper cuts through the silence and leaves her frozen, her hand and keys only millimeters away from the source of his future children. “ _ Soul!?”  _

 

“The one and only,” he wheezes. “Can you  _ please  _ move those keys?” 

 

Maka’s heartbeat is throbbing angrily in her ears but she manages to jerk her hand open and the keys fall to the deck clattering. 

 

“Fuck.” The whoosh of the breath he’s holding caresses her cheeks. “Thanks,” he says, slumping with relief, loosening his grip on her wrist and knee. 

 

With all the adrenaline coursing through her body, her eyes have finally adjusted to the gloom enough to take in the tall frame and ethereal glow of his near white hair--  _ Soul! _

 

_ Alive _ \-- not locked up somewhere in the bowels of the ship being beaten or worse gutted and tossed overboard. Soul, here alive and well. Maka chokes on an unbidden sob of emotion, as overwhelming relief floods her body mixing with the pure adrenaline of a fight she wasn’t going to lose. He’s okay and that’s all that matters, because all she cares about in this moment is him.

 

Chest heaving she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself as close to him as possible, gripping him with all her strength as her chest heaves another broken sob of relief. She buries her face in his neck as hot tears sting her face.  _ He’s safe! _

 

The guttural noise he makes, before his arms come up encasing her in his vice tight grip, makes her throw out all logic for once. And she finds herself where she’s only fantasized about being for the past two weeks-- in Soul’s arms. Maka buries her hands into his hair kissing his neck before she even thinks through what she’s doing. 

 

But for once, her anxieties about who she is, the boundaries she’s carefully hidden herself behind, and the ideas of a future she won’t allow herself to have simply melt away. For once, she is fully present in this moment. The only thing on her mind now is feeling everything she can feel. And she wants him to feel it, too.

 

He groans, burying his face into her neck, breath ragged and hoarse. Her knees buckle when he lavs at her neck but it still isn’t enough for either of them. One of his hands is splayed on her back, and the other has cemented her ass to his hips. 

 

Even through her uniform she can feel every inch of his frame. 

 

The way he moves his face against her cheek, is indicative of asking for her permission. Maka doesn’t have anything she wants to withhold from him, so she turns her face so she can claim his lips herself. 

 

Her blood is fire, and so is his. There’s no need for words, no explanation of how they’ve spent their night. In his kiss she tastes the torment of his fear, the rush of adrenaline, the sweet relief of his safety, and a hunger-- his hunger for her-- that elates her beyond anything she’s experienced before. It matches her own need and Maka razes his bottom lip with her teeth. Even the tear of his stubble on her skin incites her. She’s blinded by sheer want. 

 

The sounds he’s making sear her with an ache she’s never felt. It has her clutching at him, pressing herself to him, feeding off of their white hot heat. She wants everything he’s giving, and even the sharpness of his teeth at her neck isn’t enough. 

 

Maka sinks her hands under his sweatshirt-- she needs more. 

 

Her hands palm at the muscles right above his hip. It still isn’t enough, her hands slide over his glistening back, she digs the pads into the stress tightened muscles making Soul moan. The sweatshirt is a hindrance and she shoves it up higher and higher until it’s gone, flung out of her way. She palms his shoulders, kneading into his chest, and taut stomach. Her lips close over a hard nipple, which she teases with her teeth and tongue, while her hands memorize the hard muscles of his arms, his back, his hips almost all at once. Only now that she’s tasted him, she wants to taste all of him.

 

Her fingers toy with the edge of the low slung sweatpants until she slips her hands beneath the fabric. A small gasp of wonder escapes her, he’s not wearing underwear, and now she knows exactly why his uniform looks so good. She squeezes his ass and her own hips buck just below his, making her moan. Maka feels him straining and pulsing, she bites her lip. All she wants to do is run her tongue along his length-- something she’d never thought she’d want but finds a burning curiosity to do so. 

 

Drawing herself up on tiptoes she kisses his collar bones and hooks her thumbs over the waistband, feeling his heat between her hip bones pressed deliciously into her belly. She intends to push his sweats out of the way on her way down but his hands clamp over her wrists for the second time this evening. 

 

Soul pushes her arms up behind her and holds both wrists in one hand, she’s never realized how long his fingers are. And the thought of feeling those dip into the same places her fingers have gone have her feeling breathless and light headed. His right hand at the base of her neck brings her back to the surface, he’s pulling the pins that secure her braid off all while kissing her neck. 

 

Maka’s keenly aware of his tongue and suddenly the thought of his fingers flies out of her mind and she wonders just how good it will feel to have him...  _ “Eater!”  _ she gasps. Legs quake at the mere thought. His growl of victory further wrecks her senses, but then he’s pulled the elastic from her hair and his hand is dexterously undoing her braid and then she feels him shudder.

 

//

 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck!  _

 

His heart and soul are warring with his inability to process just what the hell he’s doing. He can’t-- Maka’s reduced him to madness. 

 

The physical distance presented by her uniform is unacceptable. Soul deftly undoes a number of the buttons to her top before he rips the fabric from her waistband, Maka lifts her arms to aid him. Even so, a few buttons fly, not that he can bring himself to care.  

 

Soul’s never wanted anything the way he wants her, hates that he’s reduced to touch, taste, smell, and sound, because he wants to  _ see _ her. He needs to see what’s happening in the depths of her soul and because he can’t, his other senses are on sensory overload.

 

His hands tear at the white tee, the one that teases him daily as it peeks out behind the vee of her khaki uniform. One moment it’s in the way and the next it’s gone. 

 

The way her ragged breathing fills his head, the taste of the silky skin of her neck, she feels like heaven in his hands-- the braid is free and he brings it over her shoulder inhaling deep. He’s so far gone, he’s not coming back from this ever. For the first time in his life it feels like he’s home. Her fragrance irrevocably branded into his consciousness-- a siren song to forever drive him mad. 

 

Desire. Need. Possession-- if he gives in he’s a dead man. He’s a dead man if he doesn’t.

Does he deserve to feel this good? Fuck no. He’s not even sure how he got here because he sure as shit doesn’t deserve Maka. He wants, goddamnit, does he  _ want. _

 

If Maka’s offering tonight-- he’ll torture himself with thoughts of forever tomorrow, because for him there is no going back. Forget  _ back _ \-- he has no back. And he doesn’t want a tomorrow that isn’t hers. And yet, he shoves his existential crisis into the black room, he’s taking tonight. For as long as it lasts. 

 

With thumb and forefinger he gives the back clasp of her bra a twist and is rewarded by a gasping breath. He wishes he could  _ see--  _ but since he can’t, he uses the senses available to him, intent on remembering every detail of tonight.

 

Soul palms her pert breasts, provoking a moan from Maka that goes through him like an electric shock. Remembers her mouth on his nipple and covers hers with his own, flicking at the puckered nub while his other hand teases the other nipple until it’s hard and Maka is breathless. 

 

He’s lost in her sounds, oblivious of the world around him until her thumbs finish the job she’d started out to do earlier, yanking his sweats down. The air from his lungs goes with them as he springs free, rigid and hot against the coolness of her belly. Soul forgets how to breathe when her fingers wrap around him and she exhales raggedly.

 

There’s something he needs to process, but her hand is squeezing and gliding over the stiff satin and Soul’s voice breaks, “Maka, I--”

 

The booming knocks on her stateroom next door cut him off. “ **_DCA!_ ** Open up!” shouts Lieutenant Bale. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Posting a day early because I'm remodeling a kitchen and it'll drive me nuts all day waiting. Hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for those of you who take a few minutes to leave a comment, they mean so much to me. My betas rock!


	11. Chapter 11

 

_Are you fucking kidding me?!_

 

Bale’s angry knocking has the effect of a bucket of cold water being hurled at animals in heat. And Soul wants to rage at the interruption because it feels like he's lost a part of himself when Maka tears herself away, crossing his stateroom in mere seconds. He knows this because he can hear her ragged breathing, which matches his own, near the vicinity of his rack. 

 

From the sounds of fumbling coming from her direction, he guesses she’s trying to find the various pieces of clothing that were lost to the void. Shit-- _fuck,_ even if she does manage to find her top, he’s sure buttons were sacrificed in his haste-- she can’t leave the room, which means... He has to. 

 

Given the state of _things_ , it’s going to be a challenge. Hope flares at the possibility of Bale leaving on his own, meaning he won’t need to go anywhere.

 

But,  it’s dashed by three more hard whales followed by a pause. Soul drags on his sweats over his now painfully throbbing erection and begins complex musical theory in his head to help kill it. Years of Madam Hilda wrapping his knuckles with her wooden ruler should suffocate all joy.

 

When it becomes evident, the knocking isn’t producing the desired results, Bale starts shouting, “Maka! Damnit, I know you’re in there I talked to Central.”

 

Rational thought is an elusive bitch, and Soul is struggling to catch his breath let alone think of a solution out of this grave he dug them both into. But when he feels Maka slip past him on her way to the door, he knows he has to stop her. She’s the type to sacrifice her entire reputation on the slim chance this asshole might actually want something important and Soul isn’t about to let her do that.

 

He reaches for her hand and pulls her back, pressing his lips to her ear, whispering, “Trust me.” 

 

Soul feels her nod shakily before he guides her to his previous hiding spot the corner of the door hinges, that way when he opens the stateroom door she’ll be shielded from Bale and his nasty mind. 

 

He makes his way to the stowed desk, flipping the shelf down and securing it before he flips on the small reading light and turns back to Maka. Which is a mistake.

 

She’s standing in the corner, green eyes wide, flushed cheeks covered by the rosy pinpricks of her freckles, wrapped in a halo of disheveled ash blonde hair. What he wants to do is damn Bale to the pits of hell because what he wishes he was doing is wrapping his arms around her-- maybe wrapping her around him-- or just continuing what they’d started-- but that’s completely out of the question now. He takes a deep breath, trying to douse the rekindled flames so he can shut the lid on his dumpster fire. He asked Maka to trust him to get her out of this and he isn’t going to let her down.

 

Soul spins and heads to the sink that is next to his rack, plunging his face into the cold water of the tap, not that it helps. The blood is still roaring through him and it doesn’t seem to be receding anytime soon.  He shuts off the water and scrubs his hair and face dry with a towel which he hooks around his neck. Next door, there’s another round of thumping. Bale knows the nearby staterooms are empty. Hell, the bastard’s liable to keep this up all night if he has a mind to. 

 

Unfortunately for Soul, he’s still tenting his sweatpants. 

 

“DCA!” Bale bellows, “I don’t give a rats ass if you’re dressed or not, get the fuck out here!”

 

It’s the anger and contempt in his voice that does it for Soul, as it finally kills his boner. A grim smile twists his face as he heads for the door, opening it, then securing it tightly behind him as he enters the dimly lit passageway. “Uh, Noah? There some reason you’re trying to wake the dead?” he asks.

 

“Where is she?” Bale asks angrily, spinning around.

 

“You tell me,” Soul cocks his head at her door. “Obviously, not there. Is she at Central-- aw hell, the drill, she was running it tonight,” he says, trying to work in his own alibi. 

 

Maybe he’s played that too soon because Bale doesn’t look happy. “I know-- The Flying Squad left their shit all over my spaces, like the pigs they are. She isn’t there, I just checked.”

 

 _That’s funny_ , thinks Soul, because he’s the pig; the mess was his. “Sucks man,” he says, mental grin still in place. Only it fades a little because he doesn’t know for sure if the Black Blood is Bale’s-- a question he’d like to get answered. And yet, Soul knows it isn’t going to get a straightforward one-- not tonight at any rate. “Maybe try finding her in the morning-- _patient_ guy like you, shouldn’t be too hard,” he says, sprinkling the salt thick. After all, if he’s going to be cock blocked, someone else should suffer with him. Ya’know, misery loving company and all. 

 

Bale visibly can’t come up with an argument that doesn’t discredit the credit Soul has been so generous with. His head starts shaking with his catch-22, “No, no-- she’s the one that planned a fucking drill at oh three hundred, she can deal with this now,” he says, settling for blaming Maka and going for the door again.

 

Soul’s generosity goes up in smoke as he approaches the fuming lieutenant slowly, with menacing calm. “You might want to rethink that knock-- _if_ she is in there, I might remind you that she’s sporting a gash and a head full of stitches.” All of which he puts squarely on Bale’s shoulders because whoever owns the heroin is responsible for Maka’s accident.

 

Bale takes a step towards him, “And what’s it to you…” he says, trailing off as his dead eyes take in the scratches Maka’s keys left across his torso. The black eyes light up as they flit to Soul’s door “...Unless.” 

 

 _Mother fucker--_ Soul bites down on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. He’s an idiot, he should’ve thrown on his goddamned sweatshirt. Given the lustful, twisted look Noah’s wearing, Maka will be the one to pay for Soul’s oversight.

 

The bastard removes his cover and runs a hand through his slick black hair. Grinning lecherously, he jerks his head from Maka’s door back to Soul’s, chuckling. “Unless, she’s actually in _your_ stateroom. Did she ask you to play her nursemaid?”

 

Soul ignores the question, hanging on to the ends of the towel to keep him from using the same force on the man’s neck. “Do you need a pile driver?” Soul asks, trying to not lose his cool, and effectively losing Noah. “What’s your _point?_ ”

 

It takes Bale another moment before he barks out a short, ugly laugh. “My point.” He’s still grinning. “It seems that our by the book Full Metal Bitch has forgotten that sex on a naval vessel is against the Uniform Code of Military Justice. It’d be a shame if she were to be court-martialed.” 

 

The level to which Bale has sunk lights Soul up with cold fury. He’s not going to stand here and let this bastard make veiled threats about Maka. With all the restraint he can muster, Soul cuts the distance between them to a hair’s breadth, and then leans even closer. His voice is somehow quiet and even as he says, “I’m not in the habit of threatening people-- but if you so much as ponder that thought in the company of anyone on or connected to this ship-- I’ll carve it right out of your head.” He leans back locking eyes with Bale, almost brushing his nose with his own. “And I won’t care if I have to go through that thick skull of yours to get there.  You understand?” 

 

At first, Bale’s eyes just narrow in confusion but whatever is written in Soul’s eyes kill the gross humor that has failed him. “Yeah.” 

 

Soul flicks his head a little. “Didn’t catch that.”  

 

“Got it,” Bale spits, with thinly veiled wrath.

 

“Great!” A suicidal smile is plastered on Soul’s face as Bale steps back into a more comfortable distance. “I’ll be sure to tell DCA you’re looking for her when I see her at morning quarters,” he says. 

 

The man gives him a terse jerk of the head that doesn’t quite pass as a nod. 

 

“Night,” _princess_ , Soul says with feigned apathy but Bale isn’t sticking around, and Soul stares down the dimly lit passageway until Bale slinks out of sight. After which, Soul proceeds to recite the alphabet backwards in his head-- still he waits. It isn’t until he hears the watertight door open then close that he turns back to his room. 

 

Goddamnit all, Bale’s act of cessation doesn’t fool him, not for a minute. But Soul had been the one to burn the bridge and he’s left one hell of a seething enemy on the other side. He’s fucked this up real good.

 

He bites a knuckle thinking as he opens the door to his stateroom. Maka’s sequestered on his rack where she’s tucked her entire body into the coat of the firefighter’s uniform he had thrown there, his face cracks into a small grin because she’s absolutely swimming in it. Though what’s written on her face stops his mirth. 

 

“Maka?” he asks, crossing the room to kneel at the side of the rack to get a better read on her features from the dim light. “Talk to me, are you okay?”

 

She tries to deflect his concern by burrowing into the high collar but he’s not fooled. He waits, trying to understand what’s going through her mind. He’s about to say something when Maka resurfaces, face red and still contorted with that expression he can’t or doesn’t want to decipher. “Bale's right, you know,” she says glumly. “I should be brought up on charges.” 

 

He turns his head back to the door for a moment before he looks at her. “You heard?” he says.

 

“I was listening,” she admits. 

 

Soul tilts his head, studying her further, she’s-- “You really are something else,” he says quietly. “And, no, he’s not.” Soul isn’t going to let her martyr herself for something he’d been equally guilty of continuing. The truth of the matter is, given his knowledge of the Navy-- he knows better. “Maka, nothing happened--” 

 

“ _Nothing?”_ she says breathless, and quickly looks away. 

 

 _Shit!_ Of course she’d take it like that, and he admonishes his lack of tact. Soul reaches for her hand, squeezing it gently, drawing her attention back to him. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He’s momentarily sidetracked by the way she’s worrying at her free thumbnail, and then again when her eyes zero in on his lips as he bites back his newly growing discomfort. “Look, _a lot_ happened,” understatement of a lifetime, “but, not that asshole’s version of events.” She’s still unconvinced and the embarrassment is making her freckles glow. “Maka-- for lack of a better way to phrase it-- _penetration_ did not occur.” That elicits a genuine giggle and he dies a little for wishing it had.

 

Now that he knows what’s at stake, he isn’t going to jeopardize her career. “And it won’t-- knowing your career is riding on it,” he says quietly, watching her eyes because something she’s trying to keep from him is there slipping around her walls. She tries to look away but his next words bring her back. “--not here.”  Hell no, not anywhere it could be used against her. When it happens he wants to be damn sure it’s for her eyes only. 

 

In those expressive eyes he reads her question, loud and clear. It’s almost as if her soul is resonating with his. Subconsciously, she’s come steadily closer, but then again, so has he. “That’s exactly what I mean,” he says, his hands have dropped to her sides and he uses them to bring himself closer, drowning in that pool of green. 

 

“Or not, if you don’t want it to,” he says quietly, but the look in her eyes says something else-- he needs to finish his thought. “I promise you, Maka, I won’t touch you as long as we’re on this ship…” his words trail off, his nose is so close to brushing the tip of hers. He needs to back away before he makes a liar of himself. But lord help them both, once they step off the ship-- if her feelings, or whatever it is that drove her into his arms tonight is still there when they hit that pier, he isn’t going to let her go. Ever.

 

She gasps, breathing shakily, but he’s stepped away; he’s never been in more danger of his resolve evaporating like mist, but then again, he’s never been like other guys. 

 

They have one more night at sea. Soul crosses the room to the built in to hunt for his second set of sweats, because she shouldn’t have to hide in the firefighter coat that’s drenched in his anxiety. One more night should give her time to figure out her heart. Maybe it had been a fight or flight reaction to their confrontation, or... She’d come here looking for him. He takes another long, needless moment rifling through the drawer trying to keep his mind from over analyzing her motives. 

 

He’s never been a one night stand kind of guy-- fuck, he’s never been anything more than a self care heathen with an odd kink for ash blonde hair. Soul almost groans because that makes it sound worse than it really is. His hands grip the cotton fabric, trying not to focus on all the ways he’s felt broken in the past. It hasn’t mattered, not in years. The two girls that cheated on him because he thought, at the time, he was saving himself for marriage-- a by product of his strict Catholic upbringing-- never left him feeling like he needed to go out and get laid. Then again, the idea didn’t change after he stopped attending services. And truthfully, even with how his parents marriage ended or how his brother fucks anyone that gives him a pass, Soul knows this is just who he is. He’s-- he turns around to hand Maka the sweats-- a goddamn sinner because he now covets something he’d never thought he would. To love someone. To put her needs before his own, and surprisingly, for once, the idea of forever doesn’t seem to cover the length of time he wants to devote to her. 

 

Clearing his throat, he extends the sweats to her. “I need to talk to you about what I found, you-- uh-- might be more comfortable in this.”

 

She manages to block his view of her immediate feelings with those long lashes of hers as she whispers, “Thanks.” Maka takes the garments and her eyes flit back and forth, because he hasn’t moved-- “Um?”

 

Soul hovers with momentary indecision before he speaks up. “Would you mind, ah, doing something about your hair?” It’s a plea, because he’s half tenting and feels like an asshole. He should have worn underwear but he’s down to his last clean pair for tomorrow. 

 

“What?” she says, half surprised, but her eyes land on his semi obvious problem which twitches at the warm glow dusting her cheeks again. “I-- yeah--”

 

He doesn’t waste time in turning to face the far corner if only to give her some semblance of privacy. And can logically guess what she must be thinking. “Don’t worry, I won’t look,” he says, keeping the tone flirtatious.

 

Soul’s an undercover agent, with a photographic memory, why not tease her with the possibility of mind reading. “Just _yours_ ,” he says, after a pause, and is rewarded by her gasp of surprise as he tries to quell the sudden jealousy directed at his sweats. 

 

“Okay, you can look,” she says, after a minute. When he does turn his attempted flirting evaporates in a sudden wave of apprehension. Her face is twisted with visible regret "Soul." His heart plummets to his heels-- “I’m so sorry,” she says.

 

“For?” He’s frozen, rooted to the spot with rising panic until he actually sees her eyes are focused on the angry scratches that extend from his hip to shoulder, _Oh!_ Hope returns full force, because for an instant he’d thought she was apologizing for initiating the best sex of his life-- which is saying something because they, well, didn’t actually do it. Shame colors his face, after all the same scratches are what prompted Bale to put two and two together. “It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt,” he says attempting to brush it off, but she’s already at the sink running a washcloth under the water. 

 

His breath hisses through his teeth when she presses the cold wet cloth to his abdomen. It feels so good. 

 

“This is your fault you know,” she chides him, but his attention is on her blushing freckles, the way she’s moving that cloth, and keeping it in his pants. “Why didn’t you tell me it was _you?”_

 

He catches his breath while she rinses out the streaks of blood she’s wiped away. Maka returns, reaching up to wipe his shoulder, and he has to hold his breath for a moment as she works the cool cloth back down to his hip. “Initially, I thought you were Bale or Starinsky. By the time I realized it was you--” he points to the Glock on his desk “--I was trying to ditch that while dodging your knees and keys.” The memory of her kicking his ass sort of has a reverse effect when coupled with the edges of the rag flirting with the waistband of his sweats. 

 

Soul has to grab Maka’s hands as she makes another involuntarily low pass. The breath he’s holding comes out-- he’s made a promise. He might not give a flying fuck about the Navy, but it means the world to her and that’s enough. “Hey--” he shakes his head slowly at her questioning eyes “--don’t take this the wrong way, but I need you to stop.” His thumbs rub over her wrists, gently because he needs her to understand he’s grateful for her care. 

 

There’s a questioning expression on her face but when his dick twitches again in his pants, she goes scarlet. “Ohmigod,” she’s looking at the very obvious way his pants are tented with a mixture of wonder and thinly veiled curiosity, but she backs away to give him space, her face burning as she sets the rag on the sink. “Sorry.” He watches as her eyes flit up to his chest and then at anything else in the room. “Ah-- you said you found something.”

 

Taking a deep breath, he bends over to retrieve his sweatshirt, pulling it over, to a small sound of relief from where Maka’s hidden herself in his rack again. Soul takes the opportunity to tuck his erection into the waistband of his pants and verifies that the sweatshirt isn’t revealing anything. 

 

At the desk, he flips on his MP3 player, his mini portable Bluetooth speaker brought to life with the sounds of Vivaldi. He can feel Maka’s eyes on him-- and he gives her a small half smile. That should provide enough cover sound. He drags the desk chair back to the rack and sits on it backwards. 

 

The firefighters jacket is there, next to her. He has a mind to grab her hand but instead his fingers fiddle with the heavy fireproof material. He hadn’t had time to return it to the locker after his nearly failed mission so he’d stashed the suit here. If only he could rewind the time because what he has to share is going to implicate her friend. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, looking at her eyes which are focused on his hands. “I found it,” he says, ripping off the band-aid and wishing he didn’t have to.

 

Her lashes flutter and then she locks in on him. “The heroin!” she exclaims, unexpectedly squeezing his hand.

 

“Yup.” He nods and his thumb starts rubbing the back of her hand. “In the NSF,” he says quietly.

 

Maka doesn’t take her hand away. “Shit-- you found it in the office.” 

 

His head bobs in confirmation, but his focus stays on her hand. She’s so sharp-- it’s one of the things he’s grown to admire so much about her. “Yeah,” he continues. “In the storage cabinet across from their desks.” 

 

She threads her fingers into his, and he doesn’t realize it’s for his benefit until she starts squeezing his palm between his thumb and forefinger. “You don’t think they’re in on it together, do you?” 

 

In her face he reads concern for her friend, the disbelief that Starinsky could be involved, and Soul hopes to god that he isn’t. That the loud-mouthed bastard wouldn’t betray her trust like this. But it _is_ the million dollar question. Soul sighs. “To be honest, I don’t know. It was in a locked container that looked like one of about fifty others I searched. It’s possible one could be acting alone.”

 

He’s prepared to comfort her when she switches gears on him. “What did it look like?” Maka asks, face intense with focus.

 

“Buh-- it was uncut, with the trademark black mottled spots that indicate Black Blood, four units--”

 

“Not the heroin,” Maka interrupts him. There’s a small smile on her face but it doesn’t reach up to her eyes. “I meant the container.”

 

 _Oh_. “Ah, it was about this wide,” he says untangling his fingers from her to hold his hands out about shoulder width apart. “And maybe twice as long-- galvanized steel-- with a locking lid.” Soul’s about to ask another question but she speaks up.

 

“Okay. Was it marked in anyway-- did it have any symbols on it?” She’s sitting up straighter leaning towards him. “Like an orange propeller or maybe a dot with three blades radiating out?”

 

“Ah, yeah-- I was going to ask you what it meant,” he says, blown away by her processing, but Maka deflates, her hand coming to her mouth as she worries at her nail, eyes focused but no longer on him. “Maka-- what is it?”

 

There’s a line of hissing he realizes is her saying _shit_ over and over quickly. Maka refocuses on him. “Soul, you’ve just described a ship to ship transport container.” 

 

 _Ship to ship…_ “Oh _fuck_ ,” he blurts.

 

Maka’s nodding. “Not only did you find the heroin, but this means that we’re not the only ship involved.” That mind of her’s is still going. “Did you see anything else on the container? Masking tape maybe with letters on it?”

 

Soul is still processing that this is bigger than his office initially thought and that Maka’s way ahead of him. “No, I didn’t have time to really, because Bale came in. I don’t remember there being anything though,” he says.  

 

“Wait-- what?” Maka says, crushing his fingers. “You didn’t mention that!”

 

“Relax,” Soul says, liking the look of concern on her face a little too much. “He didn’t find me--” Bale had given up on the mess a few minutes after pushing Mifune out of the office, cursing as he went and threatening to get some other sailor to clean it up. It had been another anxiety searing five minutes before Mifune returned to bail him out. Soul had only just ditched the jacket and donned the sweats in darkness, when he heard the door jiggle  “--Although, you’re probably going to catch flack from the mess I left in his office.” He’s trying to stifle his grin.

 

“It’ll be the first time he has a legitimate reason to bitch,” she says, waving off Bale’s pity party. Her logic springs up with another question. “Was there contamination?”

 

“Nah,” Soul says shaking his head. “Chief Mifune tested the shelves before I started opening boxes. This batch wasn’t radioactive.” 

 

“Okay,” she says, lashes fluttering, and he knows she’s covering her bases. “So, what now? Are you going to confiscate it as evidence?”

 

This woman is nothing short of amazing, he thinks, and a part of him wishes he could punch Bale in the face with this knowledge.  He answers her instead, “No, not yet.” 

 

Eyebrows knot in confusion as Maka looks up at him. “But I thought--” her own yawn cuts her off, and it sends a small wave of guilt through him-- she deserves a full night of sleep and he wonders how he can go about making that happen when they pull into port.

 

“Don’t worry, it isn’t going anywhere. Whoever hid it doesn’t have anyone to move it through since the gopher-- uh, the regular guy-- is out of commission due to the radiation burns. They won’t try to move it until they’ve got someone to hand it off to.” He knows this in his gut. “And when they do, I’ll be ready.” 

 

“Fine.” She nods, agreeing with him. “Oh, oh, oh!” Her face animates so quickly, Soul simultaneously reaches for his gun as he turns for the door, but her hand smacks him in the shoulder. “No-- I--” Her eyes have turned a deep evergreen color and he recognizes it-- it’s the color they take on when she’s hooked the solution to a problem. “When did you say the last deal went down?” she asks, oblivious of the effect her entire being has on him. 

 

Soul checks the date on his watch. “Five weeks ago to the date, why?” he asks, drawing out the syllable. 

 

“Because not only do I go to PB4T, I take notes!” Maka waggles eyebrows at him, trying to reach for her khaki pants on the floor on the opposite side of him. “Hand me those, please, I need my wheel book.” 

 

She’s practically vibrating as he reaches for the pants, and then hands them to her. There’s a caw of triumph as Maka extracts a small green notebook he’s seen the other officers carry and flips through her book until she comes to the page she’s looking for.

 

“Yes! Here it is, five weeks ago we were working on--” another yawn interrupts her, but she pushes on “--six nukes.” 

 

“Uh, you’ve lost me. English this time,” he says. The acronym isn’t one he recognizes at all. Her yawns are also proving contagious. “And please start with that acronym.”

 

“ _Sailor--_ ” Maka grins, poking a little fun at his lack of understanding. 

 

“It’s Navalese, isn’t it,” he says stone faced, but if she’s going to smile at him like that, his ego can take a hit. 

 

“Mhm.” She’s still grinning and Soul gets the sense that she’s liking the fact she’s got something over him, _a lot_. “Planning Board for Training. Meaning all the department heads attend. It’s a once a week meeting to hash out and fine tune the ship’s schedule. I’m there because of the Damage Control drills. But so is the Repair Officer,” she pauses for a second, “Bale and Starinsky’s boss.” 

 

 _Oh... OH!_ “Meaning--” If he didn’t love her before, he sure as hell does now. “You’ve got the names of the ships _Death City_ serviced five weeks ago!”

 

“Bingo!” says Maka, waving finger guns, with a wide grin, that she can’t keep in place due to another yawn. 

 

“Okay, so hand that over,” he says, but she yanks her carrot away with a devious grin. “Hey now?!”

 

Solemnly, she shakes her head. “Nope, you gotta buy this information,” she says, staring darkly at the mini fridge plugged in under the desk. 

 

“I see,” he says, remembering that first day when she’d so coolly informed him that it had been installed specifically for his pampered ass, fully stocked. “What’s your poison?” He grins at her as if he’d deny her anything at this point.

 

“Caffeine, straight into the vein,” she deadpans. 

 

He laughs, reaching over to the fridge where he fishes out a Coke, pops the tab before slightly crushing the can at the top and sliding it into a coozy to hand to her. Her face tilts a little at his antics. “Sorry-- habit,” he says. “It was the only way I knew which beer can was mine in college.” 

 

Maka grins, accepting the coozied can, sipping happily, only to be robbed of oxygen, and making Soul’s ears tingle when she lets out that carbonated exhale, small pink tongue licking at her upper lip. 

 

No longer needing to bother with a can for himself as his body jolts to wakefulness from that one small exhale, attempting to get back on track, he says, “Okay, start talking,” voice hoarse. 

 

Can to her lips, she hands him the book, and then finishes another sip. “I’d start with the last three.” She points to the bottom of her list.

 

“Explain?” he asks, but by now he trusts her logic implicitly.

 

“Because of the level of contamination needed to cause those blisters,” Maka explains. “The bottom three have nuclear power plants aboard.” Her eyes watch as he kneads his shoulder with his hand. She shakes her head and continues. “My hypothesis is that somehow, the Black Blood came into contact directly or indirectly with the uranium core.” 

 

“You’re thinking the heroin came from one of those ships,” he says. Or maybe he just likes to listen to her nerd out, he thinks.

 

Maka is nodding. “It’s the only thing I can think of. There’s no way that they could have reached that level of contamination in the NSF. It’s possible-- but highly unlikely.”

 

 _Well, fuck._  

 

“Each uranium core is surrounded and insulated by containment water. I bet the ship involved was run out of specs--” 

 

“Like missing an oil change?” he asks, chin in his hand, because she’s still speaking a foreign language.

 

“Yeah, sort of. It’s more like running an economy car over 100 miles per hour for a while-- that would contaminate the water. I’m guessing they stored the heroin in one of the coolant water control valves,” Maka leans forward. “Soul, if you find out which ship was run out of specs, you’ll know which ship the Black Blood came from!” 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I hope you're enjoying the story. I appreciate the kudos, the views, and the reviews-- seriously, your kind words fuel me. Thanks to the betas who make it that much more polished <3


	12. Chapter 12

 

Maka shoves aside the flare of embarrassment and pulls the sweatshirt over her head anyway--  _ his  _ sweatshirt. It’s no use. Her face goes up in flames at the mere suggestion of the events of about sixteen hours ago. The fact that it  _ smells _ like him doesn’t help. Not one bit. 

 

There’s no use returning it to him before she’s had a chance to wash it along with the sweatpants. So what if she’s kept it for one more night. They won’t pull into port until morning. No harm, right?

 

Now dressed, she looks down at her watch only to realize she has another fifteen minutes before she meets Liz in her stateroom for a movie. Soul’s movie. Liz had discovered a sailor with a copy-- and knowing Liz-- she probably threatened them with shots. 

 

_ Dance with Death. _

 

Liz had raved about it. Then again, Liz’s favorite movie of all time is  _ Scream _ . To be honest, for Liz  the movie genre doesn’t matter, and anything that has a little blood in it will win her over-- no ghosts though. It’s probably the doctor in her. No matter the movie, Liz will give detailed explanations on why a character can’t bleed out in a specific way, or the various ways Hollywood studios get medical scenarios wrong. But, her favorite part-- nitpicking all the ways they screw up arterial spray. 

 

It isn’t the first time she’s suffered through this kind of movie, but it is the first time she’s actually very curious about the leading man. 

 

Sighing, Maka undoes her braid and scratches at her sore scalp. Time crawls, and she fidgets with restlessness. After another long minute of self analysis, staring at her haggard expression in her mirror,  Maka ties her hair into pigtails and finally relaxes. 

 

She doesn’t do it often anymore, but when she was little, this was the only way she’d wear her hair, because it was the only thing Papa could do. It burns her sometimes that love never worked out the way he envisioned it in his head. Well… with her mama. When Maka looks back she sees all the things Papa’s always done for her. He is the one who took her to her first jiu-jitsu class, much to mama’s annoyance. “She’s not a  _ boy _ , Spirit,” she’d argued. And Papa, who only ever saw her with stars in his eyes, would say, “I know-- she’s Maka.” 

 

In a flash of clarity, the idea that Maka has always held her poor, unremarkable papa on this extreme pedestal of expectation, flares bright before it pops like a blown incandescent bulb. She's never once considered her mama capable of stooping to papa’s level, but in reality, Mama is the one who left. Mama abandoned Spirit and that Maka had always thought she understood. But, during her darkest times she did wonder if only she'd been a better child, more perfect like Mama-- would she still have been left behind? “Pumpkin, it’s all my fault she’s gone. I made some terrible mistakes. Maka-- it’s my fault, not yours!” Those had been papa’s unwavering words. And he’d stood by, every time she shouted the angry things she felt in her heart, he’d stood there, accepting her anger… and he’s never left. 

 

On her rack, holding her pillow tightly to her aching chest, Maka wishes she knew which type of person Soul is. He’s taken everything she’s thrown at him and still remains. He told her his secret-- he trusted her with his identity. He hasn’t left her side-- he hadn’t needed to be on that fantail deck risking his life. And yet, he had been. 

 

She buries her face into the pillow. Soul and the idea of giving him everything doesn’t scare her. 

 

Although,  a nagging fear bubbles just under the surface.  No, what truly scares her is how she’s always been told, ever since she could remember, she's exactly like her mama... 

 

… because mama left. 

 

Three thumps at her door jolt Maka upright. The watch on her wrist says she’s eighteen minutes late! 

 

“Coming!” she shouts, scrubbing at her face with a long sleeve. Halfway to the door, the probability of it being Soul on the other side brings her skidding to a full stop. Praying fervently to Karma not to make her explain why she’s in his sweats, Maka stutter steps the rest of the way to the door. It can’t be him though-- he’d told her he’d be shut in doing paperwork for a couple of hours. She’s tense as she opens the door thinking, she needs to call--

 

“Liz!” Maka squeaks, drawing out the only syllable in her name. 

 

Her friend stands in the hallway holding a steaming bag of popcorn and a DVD, grinning. “Got it!” she exclaims. 

 

She can’t risk them being seen, so Maka yanks Liz into her room and shuts the door, ears straining for anything out of the norm coming from Soul’s side of the bulkhead. 

 

“Wow, someone’s antsy about watching Hollywood,” Liz says, laughing breathlessly as she spins to a stop.

 

“Can you be any louder? Soul is  _ in _ his room,” Maka says, now wary eyed as Liz makes herself comfortable on her rack. “Look, I was on my way.” It’s not entirely a lie.

 

“No worries, I came to find you. My laptop’s DVD drive died anyway,” Liz says, grinning.

 

“Died?”  _ She can’t be serious _ . 

 

Liz hums with all the sadness of a three year old bandit who’s just pulled a fast one on their mother. “Yeah, but I know yours is working. Relax, we can watch it here.” 

 

_ “No!” _ Maka throws out her hand as if she can stop Liz with agitated flapping. “No no no no.” 

 

The blue in Liz’s eyes narrow as she stares at Maka intently, placing the DVD and popcorn on the open desk. “Why not?” 

 

Does she need a reason?! She hisses, “Be--  _ because… _ ” 

 

“... He’s next door?” Liz supplies, when Maka doesn’t finish her train of thought.

 

Her head shakes, and the twin tails brush against her shoulders. Who is she kidding? She isn’t ready for this. To see him on screen, now, after everything feels a tad voyeuristic. Maka can’t look Liz in the eye, and her fingers settle into worrying at a small hole she’s found along the hem of his sweatshirt. “Just ‘cause,” she whispers. 

 

By now, it’s clear to her that Soul isn’t like anyone she’s ever met. But what frightens her more than him finding out she cares about him, her face grows hot at the thought, or the fact that he’s the first man  _ the only man _ who has ever made her feel the things she’s felt-- Is the fear she’s her mama’s daughter. That the minute they hit a rough spot  _ she’ll _ be the one who leaves. 

 

After all, it’s been her own lack of control over her newly blossoming sexual desires that have nearly pushed them both into a physical relationship she isn’t even sure she’s ready for. It’s clear, she can’t handle herself around him. 

 

Maka looks up only to find Liz waiting patiently for her, understanding and compassion radiating from her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly, staying Maka’s fretting hand with her own.

 

“Yes,” she starts, but can’t continue, “no,” she bemoans, changing her mind, and Liz squeezes her fingers. “I don’t know,” she finally admits. “I’m a mess.”

 

“You’re not, and even if you were, I’d still love you.” Her friend pulls her into a strong hug and Maka deflates a little. “Are you sure you’re up for a movie?”

 

No, not really. Maka sniffs, but nods into Liz’s shoulder. It’s probably a terrible idea. Then again, maybe watching Soul for two hours when he can’t pierce her with those ember eyes of his might help clarify things in her own head. It’s worth a shot. Besides, it’s not like she has anything else to do before watch tonight. 

 

Sleep has been an evasive dream these past few weeks, and Maka glares at her rack where there’s only a half inch of cold steel separating hers from  _ his. _ How anyone is supposed to sleep knowing Soul Evans is on the other side of that bulkhead is beyond her. She is evidence of that.

 

“Okay,” Liz says, letting her go so she can set up the movie.

 

Maka grabs the DVD from the desk and turns to hand Liz an HDMI cord to the monitor she has in her wall unit. Thoughts are going through her head as she inserts the DVD into the drive and opens the correct player, thumbing through the screens to hit play. 

 

Liz has already made herself comfortable on the rack, patting the space next to her. “It’s going to be okay, Maka, it’ll work out. You’ll see.” Her friend squeezes her knee for emphasis.

 

Only, Maka still isn’t sure what she wants. Papa has always said the same thing.  _ If it’s meant to be, it’ll be. _ But if her parents weren’t meant to be, then why should she be any better? It’s true Granpa and Grammy Albarn were together for over fifty years, and if Grandmother Kimura would have lived, Maka is sure she and Grandfather would have been together longer, but he died of a broken heart, not even a year after she passed.  

 

The pillow from her bed is mercilessly smashed into a ball in her lap. It’s strange because she’s never had sexual desire bloom in her this way. Hence ignoring her parents failings had been easy, because she was never going to understand anyhow.  _ Only--  _ another wave of understanding threatens to overwhelm her. She’s always been this analytical even as a child, but Papa and Mama? They’re two hotheads with even shorter fuses; Maka got her temper and stubbornness from them both. 

 

But, what if their reckless, impulsiveness backfired on them? When faced with the heated desire she’s only just now experiencing. Maka sags-- her parents have never had the patience for delayed gratification,  _ oh god, _ it’s probably how she was conceived. Her hands scrub at her face. 

 

This isn’t good… her fingers itch to worry at the fabric of the pillow... this isn’t good because she  _ wants  _ Soul.

Before she can fully lose herself to her pit of growing existential anxiety, the phone in her room rings loudly pulling her back to the moment. Making a motion for Liz to let the movie keep playing, she reaches over for the receiver and answers, “DCA here.”

 

Unfortunately, it’s Medical looking for Liz. Maka hands over the phone to an exasperated, “Are you shitting me?” As she tries to snuff out her smile. 

 

On the screen, in a wide shot, the lead actress saunters across a street in a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination and sky high stilettos. Maka had seen the magazine covers and wants to die a little.

 

“Doctor Thompson.” She hears Liz say, but the flare of annoyance quickly turns into concern. “Yes, I’m on my way.” She replaces the receiver, turning to Maka to explain. “We’re hours away from port and some poor sailor falls off a ladder and breaks his leg.” Liz is back peddling to the door while Maka goes to pause the show, but the blonde is shaking her head. “No, don’t. It doesn’t get good until about twenty minutes in. I should be back by then.” And with that the door closes behind her.

 

Maka returns her gaze to the screen. At least, given Liz’s track record, she now has a good idea of when to expect the first blood splatter. She may as well get comfortable, and after a few seconds of ethical deliberation, Maka snags Liz’s abandoned bag of popcorn. 

 

Fifteen minutes in, there’s a slew of scantily dressed women, who for whatever reason, are becoming more so at some house party while the males circle around them like piranhas.  _ Gross _ \-- she’s never understood the whole drunken pool party scene that leads to swimming in an expensive matching bra and pantie set. Maka snorts. She’s seen less activity in shark infested waters, but Soul has yet to make his appearance. It’s something Maka finds a tad strange, since he’s billed along with the lead actress, Blair Katt.

 

The camera pans from the drunken party following the throaty rumble of what she can only assume is a very nice motorcycle. There’s a shot of a boot hooking the kick stand down. It draws back so your eyes zoom in on the tight ass in designer jeans, and Maka feels a slight thrill go through her as the camera tilts up to a fitted leather jacket.  _ This--  _ this has to be him-- but the camera is refusing to show his face. The director is clearly toying with the audience, playing on the expectation. 

 

On the porch, a reaction shot of Blair practically purring at the sight of his arrival, but the audience is still in the dark. Blair waves for him to join her enthusiastically, but then her make-up perfect face breaks into a huge pout while the camera zooms in to let the world see Blair bite her perfect bottom lip with just the right amount of teeth, oozing sex appeal. 

 

Only then does it finally turn to Soul, and Maka comes very near close to dying. The camera starts at the boots and works its way up, guiding your eyes over the legs, past the belt, where the leather jacket is open enough to reveal a crisp white tee shirt, but he’s looking down!? The teasing, the build up, does not prepare her for his closed mouthed grin. His hair is much longer, obscuring his eyes, but they left it white, and it’s hot! It gets hotter when he barely tilts his head up, looking at Blair through those dark lashes with such heated intensity in those red eyes of his that Maka feels like she’s been scalded. 

 

Forget the plot. Forget the script. The action-- who cares! Maka’s reduced to utter want, because she’s there for Soul. And, damnit all-- he looks amazing. So effortlessly cool. 

 

It’s more than that-- it’s his charisma, charm, and looks-- he’s Hollywood alright. Sex appeal. And sure the entire package is there, but what’s hooked Maka is the depth in those burning red eyes of his. She groans, wanting to bury her face in the pillow, but can’t bear the thought of looking away. This can not be good.

 

There are decided butterflies in her tummy that have absolutely nothing to do with the movie and everything to do with Soul. 

 

A thump from her door makes her body spasm as she turns away from the screen and the focus it has on Soul’s bicep as his hand runs through his hair. Maka bolts up, hits the space bar to pause the movie, and dashes to the door, since she’s decided she’s not going to miss any of this on account of Liz having locked herself out. 

 

With a fluid hand motion, Maka unlocks the door, yanks it open, and says, “Why didn’t you tell me?! Hurry up, it’s getting good.” Her back is already turned to the door, and she’s about to hit the space bar when she hears laughter behind her that resonates in her chest, and that most definitely does  _ not _ belong to Liz.

 

“Tell you what, exactly?” asks Soul with confused amusement in his voice.

 

It’s as if the director has hacked her processing powers. Maka’s eyes zero in on the black motorcycle boots as she turns back and the rest happens like reverse gravity, her face going from beet red to puce as her eyes take in the tight jeans and the short sleeved, gray henley that barely hides the hint of that tight torso she  _ definitely _ doesn’t dream about only to end at that crooked, sexy grin as the air in her lungs disappears in the vacuum he’s created. 

 

The cinematography doesn’t quite catch how powerful that sexy smile is in person. The air she’s holding escapes in a wheeze that encompasses her shock and surprise. “Soul, what can I do you for?” Maka’s face drains of all remaining color after she registers the use of Chief Mifune’s standard greeting-- that man should be kicked in the shins! She ties to look anywhere but Soul’s face, because--

 

“Well--” Soul is leaning on the frame of her door rubbing his neck. “May I come in?”

 

Maka puts into play all of her disaster training, and steel’s her face, hoping that he’s lost the grin when she looks up, but he hasn’t. “I, ah, don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says, voice still strained, and she tries to check the laptop from her peripherals, because if it goes into the screen saver mode it’s bound to catch his eye. 

 

“Why not? I promise I’ll be a good boy,” he says, only lightly teasing, but the grin has widened sharply, agitating the butterflies.

 

It’s not that she doubts his word, but more that she doesn’t trust herself. Especially not with that exciting, tightening discomfort she’s feeling on account of his movie which has now intensified in his presence. Maka estimates she has seconds left to get him to leave, and her fingers coil the end of one twin tail uselessly. 

 

“Maka?” he asks softly. She’s got nothing. Her mind is blank. Just then the screen saver kicks in. “Oh-- are you watching a movie?” he asks, eyes drawn to her laptop. “Anything good--” Maka watches helpless as his eyes land on the cover of the DVD next to the computer, lit by her lamp. “Is that what I think it is?”

 

Her head nods in silent, embarrassed affirmation. To her astonishment, Soul looks like he’s been shocked and she witnesses the growing crimson tide that inks his tan, flooding every inch of his face.

 

Is Special Agent E. Soul Evans  _ blushing?  _ Suddenly, she doesn’t feel half as embarrassed. In fact, she’s feeling rather generous. Tilting her head to the right, and tossing her hair over her shoulder, she smiles widely, indicating the monitor while she hits play to the movie’s campy soundtrack. “Yep. Care to join?” 

 

His face is working, trying to form a sentence, and Maka almost feels bad about it, but then again, it’s just so alluring to see him so utterly bashful. A complete turnabout. It reminds her of that first genuine compliment she paid him and how he was mildly uncomfortable about that, but  _ this? _ This is a little too good to pass up. “You coming or what?” she asks, suddenly gleeful. 

 

\\\

 

_ Is dying due to embarrassment possible? _ Soul wonders, but it is an interesting turn of events to see her so giddy  _ and _ wearing his sweats, too, no less. One second he’s riding high on that wave of subtle meaning, the fact she purposefully chose to wear them. Only to crash into the riptide of reality-- just how in seven hells did he walk into this living nightmare? Maka is positively beaming at his discomfort. It has that G humming. 

  
Then he remembers the movie, and the note screeches sharp instantaneously. The unfairness is grating. He’d been forced to audition undercover in order to bust a drug ring-- then subjected to day in and day out participation while he set his trap for nearly the entire production team, from the producers and the director down to a large percentage of the cast.

 

It’s a fucking travesty. He’s pretty sure it swept the Razzies. God, his own mother hadn’t been able to finish watching it. That, and he’s still getting screen shot memes from Kilik, not to mention all the shit from half the agency. 

 

If one positive thing has come out of that disaster, it’s the solid cover it provided for this assignment. What if he knocks her laptop off the desk, casually? He has many strengths, but he is not strong enough to sit through this disaster, not with her. He’s going to rain check his ass out of here like a bat outta hell. 

 

“Actually, nah. I’ll, ah, come back later, ‘sides you don’t have any popcorn, and it’s pretty hard to sit through a movie without some.” He’s a flopping fish, and she can smell the blood in the water if the laughter hovering around the forest green of her eyes is any indication.   

 

Clearly, Soul has underestimated her stubbornness. Grinning angelically, Maka saunters in close, her hands light gently on his hips, and pulls herself up to say, softly, “But there’s popcorn on the bed, Hollywood. All yours.” 

 

He’s a sucker, and she drags him in behind her, not that he’s putting up much of a fight, in fact, none at all. A groan escapes him, but he takes the popcorn bag as a sad consolation prize, grumbling, “And here I thought I’d graduated from  _ Hollywood _ .” 

 

Maka’s pointing to a spot on her rack with all the authority she commands, bringing the G back in tune. “Well, it seems a shame that I christened you out of spite instead of actually checking out your acting chops.” She scoots in next to him as the scene changes. “Seemed an oversight on my part, so I’m correcting it.” 

 

Death, sweet death, would be a welcomed escape at this moment, and Soul grunts, “You don’t have to martyr yourself for my sake. Just YouTube  _ Everything Wrong with Dance with Death.” _

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Maka says as she wedges her pillow firmly between her criss-crossed legs... “I mean, don’t quit your day job, but it isn’t  _ that _ bad.”

 

… blinking, he scoffs, turning his face to her shoulder instead.  “Tell that to my Razzie nomination,” he says, gently tugging on a twin tail and instead of releasing the hair, he holds onto it. It’s like his own sort of security blanket. Maybe if he concentrates on the ashy gold, he’ll forget this personal hell of sorts. 

 

“Okay, but maybe it’s because you were eclipsed by Blair’s massive--” Maka hesitates and he’s not sure what she’s going to say, but she settles for “-- _ talents.”  _

 

A snort of laughter bursts from him at the innocent look she’s wearing, eyes glued to Blair’s chest. “Please, tell me you’re not jealous.” 

 

The eyelashes are fluttering, but the blush and flexing jaw are a dead give away. “Of-- of  _ her? _ No, not at all,” Maka huffs, turning away from the screen to study the deck. 

 

Soul tugs on the hair gently, and Maka turns, but refuses to look up. “A little?” he guesses, eyes glued to the scrunch of her nose and the pouting of her mouth. 

 

After another fleeting look to the screen, she looks up, meeting his gaze, and gives a grumpy nod. “Maybe a lot” she huffs.

 

Soul avoids looking at the screen at all costs. He’d never been comfortable with the situation. Only Blair had been decent about it, and he was grateful she wasn’t part of the drug scandal. She’d known from day one he wasn’t into her, not that it stopped her from doing her job when the cameras rolled. She’d taken way too much pleasure in making him as uncomfortable as possible between takes, but it actually helped keep the other women at bay. The best descriptor he has for Blair is she’s like a cat who bonds to the person who exudes the most fear or the strongest allergic reaction, and for whatever reason, adopts them like the stray kitten they aren’t. 

 

He’s never cared for that archetype. He’s always admired intelligence, and physically-- athleticism without surgical enhancement-- like Maka. 

 

The events of the other night are burned into long term memory. How she very nearly handed him his ass, her strength, eyes-- her hair. She’s amazing.

 

Very deliberately, Soul coils her hair around his finger, drawing her in slowly, losing himself to the depths of her soul. His hand comes up to cup her jaw, thumb soothing out the tension she’s holding there. “Maka, Blair Katt has  _ nothing  _ on you.” 

 

His breathing feels shallow as the blood starts pooling across the bridge of her nose, lashes trying to dust off the freckles. Maka lights a fire in him he’s not sure can be doused. His hand traces her neck following her flush, his heart racing to match the rapid pulse at her throat.

 

It’s not cool to be this jealous of his sweats, but he finds that he is. Had anyone told him weeks ago this would be his reality he’d have laughed, but he isn’t laughing now. 

 

On his list of divergent sexual kinks, he finds that right up there with getting his ass kicked by a beautiful woman is watching said beautiful woman fan a mad blush with lashes. He’s like a moth drawn to a flame. Fingers toying with the collar of the sweatshirt he dips one in, carefully brushing along the collarbone until he feels the chain of the necklace, his anchor.  Because Maka is like gravity. 

 

He’s weightless, and when her lips part, the sound she makes, amplified by the G, brings him in.

 

“Soul... we can’t…” she says, quietly, softly in a way that further lights his blood on fire, but he does manage to stop just short of her lips. And now, faced with the new aphrodisiatic qualities of the smell of popcorn, Soul groans. 

 

And yet, it’s Maka’s nose that hovers a breath away from his own, because she’s also drawn to him. They stay here a moment hovering, toying, but respecting the boundary nonetheless, and it’s intense. Too intense. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding and rests his forehead on her shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I know we can’t.” 

 

Because she’s right, they really can't, and the tension is worse than staring at an unopened can of Pringles. 

 

In the world’s best consolation prize, Maka draws him into her arms and tucks his head under her chin and starts scratching at his hair, and his ear is gifted with a plethora of sounds. There’s the soft whoosh of the air in her lungs, she’s presumably still watching that god awful movie, but if he can listen to her heart, he’ll be content. 

 

Given the swell of the original score, someone is about to get it. He doesn’t need to turn to catch the glint of the scythe or the butchering that follows, but he is jolted up when Maka spazzes, shaking her arms at the screen. “Are you serious?!” She’s incredulous. “No one has  _ that _ much blood!” 

 

“If you think that’s bad,” Soul laughs. “Just wait ‘til Blair gets it.”

 

Two small, strong hands push him roughly off her shoulder. “Spoilers, Hollywood. Spoilers!” Her face is smushed with such ferocity he’s not sure if he should run, then again-- “She’s billed along with you--” Maka looks back at the monitor, scrutinizing the back shot of him on screen. There’s literally nothing to see, other than a black and red pinstripe suit. Green eyes narrow and flit from him back to the screen as she puts it together. “You...  _ You’re  _ the killer!” she screeches, and pummels him with her pillow. “You-- ugh!” 

 

The pummeling halts as she gets up to stomp to her laptop and pokes the eject button angrily without so much as stopping the movie. “You’re not going to finish it?” he asks, with just the right amount of feigned contrition.

 

“What’s the point?” she screeches. “You ruined it--” looking up at his sheepish lack of guilt, she adds “--On purpose!” 

 

To his joy, she returns back to the rack and punches her pillow into submission on her lap. Soul looks at her cautiously when she stops and pats it, inviting him to place his head there, which he does, skeptical at first until she resumes scratching at his scalp. It’s as if his body wants to purr, but the moment his eyes close…

 

“Did spoiling the movie keep your mom from watching it?” Maka’s grinning when he dares to open one eye. 

 

“Sadly, no. And it wasn’t for lack of me trying to dissuade her. She didn’t get through it, though,” he says, and tries to close his eyes in an effort to keep her from going  _ there _ .

 

“What about your dad?” she asks quietly.

 

Since her hands are in his hair, he doesn’t have access to his habitual anxiety outlet. “Uh.” What does he say? “Um, I haven’t seen him in some time. Last I heard, father wasn’t amused.” Aside from the strained phone call the day he boarded the ship, he hasn’t had much of any communication with his old man.

 

Gentle hands grip the side of his face, tilting his head back so she can get a good look at him, her thumbs smoothing the tension in his jaw. “I don’t understand, Soul, you aren’t an actor. He didn’t commend you for breaking up the drug ring at all?”

 

He’s ensnared by the concern in the depths of green warmth, but she’s drifting into dangerous waters. If he doesn’t course correct, and fast, not only is Maka going to figure out what, but  _ who _ his father is. She’s too brilliant not to. And, he isn’t ready to face  _ that _ just yet. 

 

The door to the black room is shaking with his inability to vent his anxiety. “It’s fine-- he’s a crusty old bastard who can’t get over the fact that I chose a different path. That, and the fact that I supported my mother in the divorce years ago.” 

 

It’s a version of the truth, he supposes. “Your parents, too,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t just say what he thinks she just said. With those simple words his mind drifts back to the necklace. 

 

“Don’t be,” he says. “It’s not your fault, he wasn’t around.” He’s watching her carefully now, trying to read between the lines. “I was the one that ruined our relationship when I told him exactly what I thought about him randomly popping up, raising mom’s hopes, only to kick them away.”

 

Maka is far away from him when she asks, “Your father left?”

 

A cold weight sinks into the pit of his stomach, because if Maka’s father abandoned her, then it makes so much sense that she’d guard her heart against the possibility of ever being abandoned again. Soul carefully flips over onto his stomach so he can look her in the eyes properly. “Father didn’t exactly abandon--” there’s a flinch of pain in her face, but he finishes “--us. It’s more like he was never there, even when he was. Not sure you’d understand.” His eyes are focused on her heart where the jade necklace lies hidden, separated only by his sweatshirt, wondering if he’s understood its meaning at all.

 

“Oh,” she says quietly. “My papa can be like that, but mostly he’s overbearing.” Soul looks up at her face, but she continues. “Mama left him when I was still little.”

 

The sinking he feels is more of a sensation of weight around the ankles, and the ocean pulling him into the depths. Her mother left her father, and by extension… Maka. 

 

In all the years his father was unfaithful to his mother, Constance never once blamed him or her sons. Soul remembers wishing she’d rage against the man that had caused her so much pain. But she never did. She stayed. And when he served her the divorce papers, she signed them. It was Weston and Soul who found the lawyer and gave her the information for the case, the case that went in favor of their mother, because they fought against their own father. 

 

Soul had once asked her if she wanted to annul the marriage as well, and that was the only time he saw her angry. What she said to him haunts him every now and then: “No. No matter what he chose, I married him-- I made my promise faithfully.” After she’d cooled off, she’d held his hand and explained, “Soul, I won’t consent that my marriage didn’t exist or shouldn’t have occurred. I love you and Wes too much-- he can have the divorce.” 

 

All he wants to do is hold Maka, but there’s really nothing he can say, and even as he’s trying to voice his support, she looks back to him. “You know though, I think I’ve treated my parents as if they were these infallible pillars of my own ideas of what love means, when in reality they’ve never been more than young people who couldn’t control their sexual chemistry, and had me as a result.” A surprised burst of laughter follows this, but her eyes are focused on the bulkhead behind him.

 

_ Young people who couldn’t control their sexual chemistry... _ He has nothing to say to that. 

 

“Soul?”

 

Sound returns, and it’s him who’s swimming up from the depths. “What?” he asks.

 

“I asked what it is your father wanted you to do? You mentioned he wanted you in the family business.” Maka’s green focus is once again trained on him. 

 

There’s tension coursing through his entire body; he doesn’t want to lie, but he also can’t bring himself to tell her the truth just yet. Soul’s been steeling himself for the question since he’s confided his cover to her. A certain aspect of his job is based entirely on lies-- only, he can’t. Not to Maka, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want her to hate his reality-- with what he understands of her family now, it’s possible she won’t. “My father’s an ad--”

 

The phone rings, cutting him off, and he aspirates the rest of his sentence, hating that the shrill ringing has bought him a few extra moments, and yet grateful all the same.

 

She carefully extracts herself and crosses the room to her phone with a look of  _ This had better be good _ written on her face. “DCA here,” she barks as the officer returns. 

 

Soul observes her as he sits up, his own hand back in his hair. Bale is wrong. Maka may be a woman on a mission, but in the moments her time is hers, she’s  _ there,  _ focused on her present. He’s not sure he’s ever been able to turn off his job the way she does. 

 

Whoever is on the phone has just given her information that makes her hand drop. Soul’s money is on the fact that Chief Mifune must’ve found something. Maka turns her back to him, but he catches the confirmation to his suspicion it is her chief on the line. His body stiffens. 

 

Her hand comes up to rub at the skin above her stitches. “Are you serious? Any idea how long they’ve been missing?” she asks. The chief’s voice is too low for him to catch the response. “Thanks, Chief. Let me know if they turn up,” she says. 

 

Soul’s already at her side by the time she puts the phone back into the receiver. “What happened?” he asks.

 

“The keys. Bale must have gotten them from the mess cooks’ office-- they’re the ones in charge of cleaning the staterooms. Both mine and yours are missing.” 

 

“Fuck--” His hand is trying to work the stress from his neck “--Did he say how long?”

 

Maka does the math in her head. “He said the senior chief thinks days-- maybe a week, max.” 

 

Soul takes in a deep breath as something clicks. “Starinsky was probably telling the truth about your key then. I’ll search their rooms again in the morning-- when everyone is tied up driving the ship into port-- maybe something will turn up,” he says, forgetting himself.

 

Her eyebrows have disappeared under ashy fringe. “ _ Again? _ As in you-- of course you searched the rooms,” she says, and he nods because he has nothing to withhold from Maka. “Mine too, right?” she asks, after taking a deep breath. 

 

He nods. 

 

“But-- oh, my MP3 was locked,” she says, more to herself than to him. Ah, that-- no he hadn’t needed to access her player. “But, you still searched my room.” 

 

Maka steps away from him and backs up to her wall unit. “You said I wasn’t a suspect.” Annoyance colors her tone. “You said you  _ trusted  _ me-- clearly not enough not to rifle through my things.” Her arms cross over her chest, simultaneously protective and defensive.

 

Soul sighs. “Truthfully, I was looking for these,” he says, picking up her keys from her desk, and thinks twice about handing them to her. “I thought I needed them to get into the NSF.”

 

“Those are on me at all times,” she says, looking up from the brass to stare up at him as he braces an arm over her head.

 

“I know that,  _ now _ ,” he admits. “But, I didn’t when I first came aboard, did I?” 

 

She’s stubborn, so she tightens her arms over her chest more securely, lips drawn in a pout he’s sure she doesn’t realize is enticingly seductive.  “Let me guess, you thought they’re something I’d keep in my underwear drawer?” she asks hotly, a blush creeping along her cheeks. 

 

“It’s possible,” he says seriously, using one of her keys to gently trace her jaw line. “I like the white ones, though.”

 

He watches her nostrils flare a little. “‘Cause they’re virginal,” she says, with a hint of spice.

 

“No,” he leans in to whisper his confession. “'Cause they’re granny panties.” Maka chokes a little, but then laughs like she doesn’t believe him. “Sure, you might think that’s funny,” he continues, “but, Karma is a bitch.” 

 

Curiosity brims in those emerald eyes as she challenges him. “Oh, how so Mr.  _ Evans _ ?” 

 

His whispered name on her lips causes a ripple of goosebumps to go through him. His eyes are focused on the key he’s dragging from the collar of the sweatshirt to her shoulder. He inhales sharply when he realizes there is no catch of a bra strap, his eyes flit from hers to her crossed arms and then back to the freckles that are burning, oh so pink. 

 

“Well, for one, the six they cover is--” he groans, because he can recall the feel of her ass in all its perfection, but also because he knows he sucks at this. 

 

“Oh?” she asks. “It seems to me, Mr. Evan’s, that you’re blushing.” And just like that she turns the tables on him, taking the lead. Uncrossing her arms, she pulls on a different key, dragging his hand along with it. “Is it that photographic memory that’s giving you the trouble?”

 

He swallows so hard he actually makes that gulping noise that he’s always thought must be an exaggeration. It isn’t. “I uh, maybe.” 

 

“Really?” she asks, so innocently, but the way she drags the keys, they catch over something hard. He looks down as she gasps softly. “I thought for sure it’d be the fact that--” She goes up on tip toes so she can whisper in  _ his _ ear “-- I’m not wearing a bra.” 

 

The arm that’s supposed to be supporting him starts to shake involuntarily due to lack of oxygen. Maka gives the keys a little tug and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die on the spot. 

 

“I know I said we can’t, earlier,” Maka says, heels now grounded to the deck. Soul opens his eyes, looking at her burning face with more hope than he means to. “And, I haven’t changed my mind,” she says, slightly strangling the hope. Except the way she’s hooked her hand into his belt loops actually keeps him grounded. “But,  _ when _ we can--” She pulls him closer to her, so his ear is near her mouth without her stretching. Her hand goes back to the keys, tugging them much lower “-- I’d like you kiss me here--” his knowledge of her body expands “-- and  _ here _ .”

 

The only explanation is that he's entered the black room, has to be. He has to get out of here, he has to make sure this isn’t some delusion of his warped imagination. Soul takes a deep, shaky breath and drops the keys. He barely makes it to her door.

 

His hands are shaking as he unlocks his own room, trying to adjust a very uncomfortable problem in his pants. He hopes the icy blast of the faucet can help-- but it doesn’t. Not one fucking bit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating a day early because we're heading into a holiday weekend and I won't have a chance to tomorrow. As a bit of trivia- I tend to use Marika Kimura, a character from The 5th Wave series, as my archetype for Maka's mother. Something about Ringer's demeanor in that series resonated strongly as a mother figure for Maka.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments, they mean so much to me. I'm always curious about what resonates with the readers. 
> 
> **hugs for betas**


	13. Chapter 13

 

“The fox fled the coop--” 

 

Maka turns away from where she’s about to knock on Soul’s door only to confirm that yes, indeed, it is Bale speaking. 

 

“--Less than an hour in port, and he’s already abandoned ship. That has to be a record even for you DCA,” he says with a nasty, chew-stained grin.

 

“Funny, didn’t Medical spray this section for roaches already,” Maka says, dryly. “What are you still doing here?”

 

Bale shoves a stack of papers under his arm, smirking as he does. “Haha,” he says, mirthlessly, “That razor wit of yours, it can’t be the reason Eater bailed, can it? Must be the lack of your other _skills_.” He punctuates this statement with a suggestive cough. 

 

“Please tell me you’re choking on whatever it is you can’t spit out, Noah.” If he’s going to stand there making veiled commentary, Maka has better use for her time. “Although, I think I’d pay to just watch.”

 

He mouths the word _bitch._ “Nothing to choke on. Although, it’s just so fucking amusing seeing you panting outside Eater’s door when he isn’t even on the ship,” Noah says, with a smug shrug.

 

Since he isn’t the pillar of honesty everyone else thinks he is, Maka doesn’t waste her time believing what he says. “I didn’t realize he cleared his schedule with you,” she says.

 

“He didn’t. But, looks like he forgot to ask his nursemaid for permission to piss off. I mean the man did bail not ten seconds after the brow hit the pier. Looked pretty anxious to go, too-- something about a hot date,” he leers. 

 

The weight of his words knock her a little off balance. _Well shit_ , even Bale can’t fake such a pompous sneer. Soul’s gone? Maka stuffs her surprise into the mental closet as she breezes by Bale and stabs her key into her own lock. It’s possible he left her a message in her room. She twists the knob forcefully opening the door on the wings of some hope. 

 

Bale sidles up with a hand on her door frame, breathing in through his teeth only to exhale with, “You weren’t worth the wait, I guess. Huh, baby?” 

 

“Hey Noah--” Maka says, drawing his attention only to slam her door in his face “--drop dead,” she finishes, quietly as she collapses against the cold steel. She ignores Bale’s scornful laughter, “Real mature, Maka!” as he stomps away. In the distance her desk is pristine. _Damn._

 

Staring at the empty room, Maka can tell he hasn’t been in here. She sighs, pulling off her dress-white cover and tossing it upside down on her rack; she removes her keys and sails them into it. And refuses to blush.  It’s probably her own fault, for teasing him like that last night and running him off.

 

The porthole offers a single view of the frigate docked on the opposite side of the pier. How the hell is she supposed to know where Soul is? It’s not like she even has a cell number. 

 

Shit! He must have found something during his search of the staterooms-- something that couldn’t wait until she was able to break away from the bridge. It was probably important enough there was no time to leave an explanation.

 

Maka turns away from the porthole. Well, there’s no sense in wasting time. Two seconds later ,Maka drags out her overnight bag from a drawer and starts filling it with the laundry she doesn’t like to do while she’s aboard. At least this way, when Liberty call goes down, she’ll be ready to get out of here.

 

Switching on her music, Maka goes around her stateroom tidying up and collecting her things. She’s dancing to the beat, singing into a hairbrush, when her door thumps with knocking. Her heart skips a beat as her face flares with embarrassed hope at the idea it might be Soul. 

 

“OH--” On the other side of her door is Liz, and her emotions are further dashed. “Hey.”

 

“Hey, yourself,” Liz says, eyebrows arched as Maka swings the door wide. 

 

“Come in-- how’d it go last night?” she asks as she tries to act normal. “Sorry, I’m just packing up to head home.” 

 

“You’re good,” says Liz, from the desk where she’s dumped a box onto the surface. “Last night went well. But, you look a little stressed. You were hoping it was Soul?” 

 

Maka looks up trying to guard her facial expression, and fails as Liz whips an envelope from behind her. “Or, maybe, you were expecting _this_?” she asks, gleefully.

 

“What is that?” Maka asks, trying not to feed off Liz’s excitement. 

 

“An envelope,” says Liz dryly, but then her mouth splits into a wide grin. “From Soul.” 

 

The tall blonde holds it above Maka’s head for a second before she brings it low enough for Maka to snatch it from her. On the front is her name in his bold penmanship, and her pulse quickens. 

 

“Okay, open it. I need to know what the key is for?” Liz says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I held it to the light-- I’ve got ideas.” 

 

And Liz would-- but that can’t be it. Maka takes a deliberate breath to regain her composure. It’s probably the key Soul was searching the staterooms for. And, if that’s the case, she can’t risk opening it in front of her friend. Maka carefully sets the envelope next to the box on her desk. “What’s this?” she asks, attempting to bait and switch.

 

“You _bitch_ ,” Liz says, without any heat. “You’re going to let me stew in my curiosity. You’re heartless. I’ve had that in my pocket for the last four hours-- I considered opening it-- but I’m a reformed woman, please put me out of my misery. I’m right, I know I am,” she says, crying out passionately.

 

Maka gives her the _are you finished yet_ look, and Liz huffs. “Screw playing Cupid’s messenger for you two dorks.”  Since Maka’s face has gone scarlet again, Liz backs off. “Please-- stop-- you know you make me feel so guilty.”

 

“I can’t help it,” Maka squeaks. 

 

Liz has now picked up the box. “I swear you blush on purpose so I’ll leave you alone,” she says. 

 

“You still love me,” Maka sing-songs, face red, but she wraps her arms around Liz’s waist smiling up at her. “It works, though, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Liz laughs, and hands the box to Maka with an inscrutable expression. “Look... I didn’t give this to you on your birthday because I didn’t think you were ready for it, but I think it’s time.” There’s a drawn out moment of piercing blue before Liz lets go. “And Maka, you _are_ going to the hail and farewell party tomorrow, right?” Liz asks, pausing at the door. 

 

Maka lets out an audible groan. “If I don’t, I’ll get a lecture from Captain Buttataki on Monday about how I broke the poor Supply Officer’s heart by not going to his party.” Her nose wrinkles at the mere thought. 

 

“That’s _never_ stopped you before,” Liz says, brows arched.

 

Maka laughs popping the, “Nope.”

 

Liz gives her the universal sign, _I’m watching you_ , complete with the fingers and a wink before she exits. 

 

The smile disappears from Maka’s face the moment the door latches. Her hands snatch at the envelope, which upon closer inspection has the weight of fine stationery, not that it stops her from ripping it open. The key drops to the desk surface as Maka pulls out a single card embossed with a scripted E. _642 Hallows Hill. Had a meeting. If you get there before I do, make yourself at home._

 

Her hand goes to the desk to retrieve the key. It’s a house key-- _his_ house key? And... in so many words, his _trust._  

 

Maka stands there holding the key, fighting the knot that’s threatening to choke her. This doesn’t feel like some whim, this feels honest, sincere and genuine. But nothing in her upbringing has prepared her for this-- people don’t fall for each other after a few weeks. What this feels like is a sense of burning in her heart that is equal parts elation and pain, or maybe fear-- fear of the unknown?

 

When enlightenment strikes, she sinks to the deck winded from the after shock of lightning as her muddled emotions settle and her mind clears-- she loves Soul.

 

Time has no meaning, she could have sat there for a few minutes or a few hours. 

 

What the hell is she supposed to do with this knowledge though? Tell him? She shakes her head… no. Yes? No! Maybe? No no no. It’s... too… much… _too soon._

 

In an effort to distract herself from this existential crisis Maka reaches up to the desk and pulls the box down. It’s a simple brown cardstock box; inside there’s tissue paper which she lifts up-- then presses back down carefully. Her face is already steaming. Why does Liz have to do this to her?!

 

Taking a deep breath Maka lifts the tissue wrapped package into her lap. It’s nearly weightless. Her burning cheeks must be the color of the silk, a red so deep it probably matches Soul’s eyes. Holding the wispy silk up to the white of her uniform top only heightens how little the garment, if it can even be called that, will cover. _Liz!!!_

 

Turning her attention back to the box Maka chokes on air proper. There had been weight, and now she can see why. There is a Costco sized variety box of condoms, and Maka dies, just a little. Cursing Liz for-- _for..._

 

Maka sighs. If there’s anyone on the ship that knows her better than she knows herself at times, it’s Liz. And her mother-hen of a friend isn’t the type to tell Maka to go out on some fling. If she’s gone to the trouble of gifting her such items, it’s because her deeper message is to take a chance. _Live a little_.

 

Liz, in all the year’s Maka has known her, has never once batted an eye at Maka’s disinterest in sex.  If anything, she’s always been the contingency planner. “Do you know your limits?” she’s asked. “What happens if you’re in a situation you don’t want to be in, can you protect yourself?” and another time “Okay, but have you ever considered what you’ll do if you’re ever in a situation where you want to?” Of course Maka reiterated that she’d _never_ be in that sort of situation, _ever._

 

“I don’t know, Maka,” Liz had said. “I find it interesting that as the DCA officer you haven’t planned for your own drills or scenarios. What if they don’t have a condom-- and spare me, you know better than anyone else that pregnancy can happen the first time.” 

 

Yes, Liz had given her _The ‘Refresher’ Talk_ in excruciating, medically graphic, detail. 

 

Maka pulls the gift box back to her; there are other things inside. Well, she thinks, if she can tease Soul at his own game, then she can be brave enough to wear this-- she examines it, but it really has little shape-- and take a chance on what could potentially be a good thing.

 

Only, how does she tell him how she actually feels? Not knowing how to answer that, Maka pulls herself up, and dumps out the contents of her overnight bag. She has repacking to do.

 

//

 

Maka pulls into a pristine driveway and double checks her cell phone to verify that the Maps feature didn’t bork and reroute her to some unknown location, but it says she’s at the correct address. She’s gaping because she’s not sure what she’d expected, maybe a bachelor pad? Sure as hell not _this_ . This is a fucking _house._

 

Not that she knows much about architecture. It’s earthy, all warm tones, rock, wood, and iron-- it suits him, somehow. Maka kills the jeep and resists the urge to check her map again. The numbers on the wrought iron gate indicate she’s in the right location. Six-forty-two Hallows Hill-- Soul’s house. 

 

She reaches over for her bag on the passenger seat, and then retrieves the key from where she had placed it in her cup holder for safe keeping. The slam of the jeep door is loud on the quiet street. Maka smooths down her plaid mini with one hand, the beat of her heart feeling a little fast as she walks to the open gate wondering if that means he’s home?

 

He is.

 

No sooner does she step foot into the courtyard when the French doors at the far end open, and there he is. Soul steps outside with that pulse jarring side grin, in bare feet, well worn blue jeans, and tight fitting white tee, talking into a headset that is attached to what can only be a cell in his back pocket. The only new addition is the leather shoulder harness with his Glock tucked under his left arm. 

 

Maka smiles sheepishly at him, but he’s well on his way to meeting her halfway. She drops her bag as soon as he’s within range, because he pulls her in for a fierce hug.  And she melts a little because, damn, he smells so good, like a fir forest and tea. 

 

“Yeah, Kilik, still here-- did you get anything on those ships I asked about?” he asks, and then brushes his lips across her bangs, after he lifts his head and sighs. “Fuck.”

 

She braces herself to move away and give him privacy, but his arms tighten ever so slightly, so she rests her chin back on his chest, the beat of his heart steadying hers. His voice rumbles, deep into her chest, when he speaks again. “Stay on it, I know it’s not ideal through the weekend, but I’ve a feeling he’s going to move soon-- we need to be ready.”

 

His hand is wrapping and unwrapping the long length of her ponytail as he listens to the voice on the other side. After a moment, she feels his fingers on the hair elastic that he works off of her hair. Her curiosity about what he does with the elastic vanishes the moment he starts massaging her scalp, and she sighs as she lets go of weeks worth of drills, watches, an angry forklift, and several sleepless nights, swaying a little in his embrace. 

 

“Okay. Hey-- one more thing, do a cross check with the names I gave you. Call me the second you come up with anything. I know Kim’s lucked out,” he says, and Maka watches as he rubs a swath of her hair slowly across his upper lip. “You got it, man. Hey, call me direct this weekend-- Jackie’s watching the ship. If this guy does suspect something, maybe he’ll make a move when I’m gone. I’ll be back Monday morning. Yeah... yeah-- talk to you then.” 

 

Soul pulls the headphones out of his ears, and extracts the cell phone one handed to place them on one of the teak chairs under the shade of the large porch. Maka is vaguely aware that he’s been steadily pulling her towards the house.

 

His hands are on her face and she welcomes his lips, relishing in the groan that escapes him when her tongue meets his and savoring the connection, the electric resonance between them. It assuages the insecurities that have haunted her the past few days.

 

They’re both breathless by the time he lifts his head. The intense desire in his smoldering red eyes lights her heart on fire. “Hey beautiful,” he says, quietly, “Welcome home.” 

 

The house has nothing to do with it, Maka thinks as her heart swoops within her chest. He means it, and oddly enough it _does_ feel like she’s home. But it’s because of _him._

 

And maybe it has a little to do with the way he can’t seem to keep his hands off of her. He keeps running them over her arms, thumbing muscles she didn’t even know were sore; it’s like he has a homing beacon to the nodes where her body stores her stress and worries. Like he either can’t believe she’s here or he can’t get enough of her being here.

 

“Hey, yourself,” she says. It comes out in a shaky breath. 

 

They’re in this slow two step of sorts, his forehead is pressed to hers, but her hands have a mind of their own, gripping his waist tight, pulling him to her. And finally, she shudders as he cups her rear, holding her tight against his rigid form. She’s on her tiptoes until he kisses her again, and as she pulls on his lower lip, it’s him who’s breathing is shallow by the time they part. “Fuck,” he says, drawing out the vowel slowly, wrapping her in a strong hug. “I missed you.” 

 

“I missed you, too.” There’s a hint of a giggle fueled by her elation. The other night feels like ages ago, now.  And if he lets her inside the house she plans on showing him exactly how much and tells him so, because she’s done relying on just her hands and imagination; she wants to know what everything feels like with him.

 

///

 

The black room in his head is vibrating with euphoria at her arrival. He hasn’t been this excited to see anyone since he believed that Santa was real, so he should hardly be blamed for basically dropping the call on Kilik. Even with all the shit he’s going to catch from the guy the next time he sees him-- it’s not like he can help that he turned incoherent the moment she walked through the gate. 

 

Maka in her uniform is beautiful, but out of it? She’s downright stunning. He’s still not sure how her legs can be so long when the top of her head barely reaches past his shoulder. But they are, and he has little doubt about her ass kicking ability, now, given the caliber of boots she’s wearing. The fitted light yellow v-necked t-shirt is a complement to her bright personality, plus what little it leaves to the imagination, his memory has more than eagerly supplied. 

 

There’s something else though; for a heart stopping moment, he thought he’d caught a hint of her uncertainty, but it’s gone in a blink. As much as he wants to reassure her, it’s not his call. All he can do it show her that he’s serious. That he’ll be with her in whatever capacity she wants him to be. For as long as she wants him there.

 

He draws her in again, framing her face to keep him centered. “How was your night?” he asks.

 

“About like yours, I imagine,” she says with a laugh. 

 

His eyebrows draw up, because he’s sure that last night had been the longest, most frustrating night he’s ever endured. Walking away from her was the hardest thing he’s done in a long time. It’s possible he used the last of the ships cold water supply, so much so, if he was steel, he’d’ve rusted.  “Yeah? It’s a good thing you left when you did this morning-- I’ve never been so sorely tempted to pick a lock in my life,” he says. 

 

“Uh--” Maka’s face burns bright, an impish smile curving her lips “--it wasn’t locked.”

 

Soul groans, but it’s more for dramatic effect. “Now you tell me,” he says, laughing. 

 

The green of her eyes darken as her hands curve around his neck; the fierce blush is a permanent feature. “Does that mean I get to finish what _you_ started last night?” she asks. 

 

Soul wants to punch the air with both his fists, but since his arms are filled with amazing woman, he nods instead, grinning like an idiot. They make it into the foyer before Maka stops short. He looks down at her, but isn’t sure what to make of her expression. “Hey, is something wrong?” he asks her.

 

The freckles have that reverse glow effect from her blush as her eyes slide to the floor. “I-- my bag-- dropped it in the garden,” she says. 

 

“I can grab it later,” he offers, with a grin.

 

Maka shakes her head, eyes focused on the grout lines in the tile. “There’s something in there we’ll need.” She’s quiet, but there’s a fierce sort of fearlessness that mixes with the vulnerability reflected her eyes when she meets his gaze. “Condoms.” 

 

The plural statement registers, and his heart is pounding so hard in his chest he feels it might be threatening to explode. Fuck, he loves her. The way her mind works, how brilliant she is, the way she radiates courage, stubbornness, and heart-- how she blushes one moment, unsure or flustered, and then is fierce, brave and confident the next. Mostly, he just loves her, and hates how society has only ever groomed him to feel like maybe it’s _too_ soon. 

 

In fact, most people would call falling in love after four weeks crazy. It only dawned on _him_ last night. The realization which actually helped him leave her room. He’s dealt with his share of anxiety in the past, but this is the first time he wants to work through the discomfort of the unknown. He doesn’t want to mess this up. 

 

He’s glad he didn’t know her door was unlocked, not for his sake, but for hers. Because he made her a promise that they wouldn’t have sex on the ship, and not because of the Navy-- because of _her._  Because all he wants for her when she wakes up is for her to be able to smile at herself. That means more to him than any impulsive indulgence of instant gratification. However, right this moment, Maka isn’t smiling. 

 

“Maka, we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing,” he says quietly, tipping her chin up so he can look into those eyes that pierce his soul. “But--” he kisses the tip of her nose “-- if you do want to-- I, uh--” It’s his turn to go red “--I ran by a gas station _before_ I went to the office.” 

 

The smile she wears shines from the depths of her inner being. “You did?” 

 

He mouths, _Oh yeah,_ which elicits a giggle. 

 

“Good.” Her eyes burn him with an intensity that brings the heat. The G in his head is electric, connected from her to him, deep into the Black Room where it resonates, amplified. If he doesn’t break eye contact, he’s not going to want to break any contact with her. The desire to just revel in her is too great. He needs to redirect now or he’s going to do something stupid like scare her away by telling her he loves her. 

 

So instead, he takes a step back, running his hand down her arm until he has her hand securely in his, extending their bond. “Uhhh-- want a tour?” he asks, swallowing hard, embarrassed by the sudden urge to just throw caution to the winds and kiss her again. _Not now, not quite yet._

 

His curious fingers explore the small calluses on her hand and it sends shivers through him. It’s probably weird that he finds it sexy, and yet he does. Lost in his train of thought even though the G is acutely aware of the hand in his, he turns away from his bedroom, away from temptation. 

 

“Holy shit, you have a _pool_?!” Fortunately for him, Maka’s exclamation brings him back to the present. 

 

“Buh?” he says, unintelligently.

 

Not finished with her rhetorical line of questioning, Maka turns to him, green eyes flashing, “How can you afford a pool?” she asks, straight to the point. 

 

It takes him a moment before he bursts out laughing-- she isn’t trying to be offensive, he gets it, Uncle Sam also pays his salary and the man isn’t known for his generosity. This doesn’t stop him from scrubbing at his hair self consciously though. “Ahh, I got lucky.” The raise of her eyebrows tell him she’s not buying it. “So, my grandfather left me a little money when he died. I was saving before then-- my brother and I started a lawn mowing company when we were in high school-- um, we sold the business when I went to university.” His ears feel hot. “I’d had my eye on this place for a long time. I snapped it up after the crash of oh-eight when it went into foreclosure,” he says, looking out at the stone work around the inground pool. Thinking of the long hours he’s sunk into the place, he adds. “It was in pretty bad shape when I got it. But, it’s not like I had much to do on my off time,” he says, with a small laugh. 

 

While his buddies were out partying, Soul could be found pouring blood, sweat, and some actual tears into this place. It’s funny how much construction he actually learned through YouTube. Then again, Mom’s the only reason it looks like an actual house. 

 

Reclaiming Maka’s hand, he points out a few items on the way to the french doors. “The baby grand was my grandmothers. Mom found the dining set and buffet at an estate sale. The bookshelves and coffee table at an auction.” His face scrunches as he says it. “Maybe I have that backwards, you’d have to ask her about it.” 

 

At his side, Maka stutter steps as her face goes white. “Your mom’s here?” she asks.

 

“No,” he says. It’s funny how much he feels at home with her, able to laugh, even when things haven’t always been this great. “She stayed with me after the divorce--” he indicates the drapes over the french doors, ornamental touches, the room in general “-- This is her handiwork. Between you and me, I think she was tired of sitting on a futon.” He hip checks her, eliciting a giggle from Maka that tingles deep within. 

 

The doors open up to the soft sounds of lapping water. Soul notices the eruption of goosebumps along her arm, where his thumb can’t stop rubbing at her wrist. That first dance is on his mind, but bright white catches his attention. Of course. He lets go to step to the trellis that frames the covered porch and plucks a jasmine bloom.  

 

Maka’s walked over to stand at the edge of the pool with her back to him, so he trails the delicate bloom up her bare arm, watching the goosebumps it leaves in its wake with deep fascination for the split second it takes for her to turn. Her eyes have darkened to match the deep green of the jasmine leaves. His bottom lip is between his teeth as he flutters the white bloom down her cheek, down the porcelain of her neck, to flirt with the collar of her shirt. 

 

She knows what he’s doing-- last night keeps going through his mind. He hasn’t forgotten where she dragged those keys to, but-- _now isn’t the time_ , he tries to remind himself, attempting to be patient. 

 

Her hand clamps over his, gently removing the flower as she takes a deep breath and comes in close. “Did your mom plant those for you, too?” she asks, looking over his shoulder. For what? He isn’t sure. 

 

“Nah, I did. I like landscaping,” he says as evenly as he can given her close proximity. The rapid change of topic makes him chuckle, but he reclaims the flower, watching those lashes flutter as he goes back to only touching her with the petals. “I’ve, uh, turned into quite the avid gardener on my own. Thanks much.” 

 

There’s heat in the green of her eyes as they fly open. It’s his turn to shiver as she tries to decide if he gardens as well as he acts. He’s been eye fucked a number of times, all the more since his part-time stint as a B rated actor, but this is the first time he’s actually enjoying the experience. 

 

Watching her swallow, he’s waiting for what comes next. Her lips part, and she asks, “ So, um, does your mom live close by?” she asks, voice hoarse. “You mentioned she lives close, right?”

 

A grin is parting his face as he shakes his head slowly. “Why are we talking about my mom?” In his mind he wonders if she wants to meet her, but that’s a question for another time. His head lowers on its own. “We can talk about her all you like _next_ weekend.” The scent of the jasmine on her skin is heady as he whispers into her ear. “This weekend is ours. Just the two of us, you and me. Someone else is watching the ship. And, unless I get called in, there’s no more talk of Black Blood, Navy, ships, or my _mom_.” The flower falls from his hand as the sight of her lips draws him in until his own lips claim them, slow, languid.

 

Which may as well have been a match thrown into dry ember, because it isn’t slow anymore. 

 

His breath catches as she moulds herself to his body, his hand splaying on her thigh, digging in, pulling her closer. And yet, Soul shivers as her hand clamps onto his, guiding his hand up and under her skirt. The sound of her gasps have him throbbing when he toys with the hem of her panties-- he already knows they’re the bikini cut ones they’d discussed the night before. The G threatens to short circuit in his brain when her hand urges his fingers to dip into the warm slickness underneath. 

 

His whole body shudders when she grinds herself into his palm. If death finds him now, it’ll find him smug; Maka makes a sound of approval that immediately resonates as a purr in his mind. Her hands are on his face, guiding his mouth back to hers, and he meets her hunger. His free hand has wound into her hair, anchoring him at the nape of her neck as he pulls her in closer. Their groans come in tandem as their kiss turns harder and more untamed; it’s like she’s clawing under his skin. 

 

A growl comes from the depths of that black room as he tears himself from her mouth to lave at her slender neck. Nipping. Sucking. Biting. But-- the fact that he’s ready to take her here in the backyard grounds him to a jerking halt. Fuck him-- he won’t be that asshole-- but, _fuuuuck_ , he wants her. Not just physically, it’s more than that, he wants _all of her._ Heart, mind, and soul. 

 

The growl of frustration is all hers, and he’s not sure if what he’s reading swirling in the depths of her gaze are his own soul’s deepest desires reflected back at him. Whatever she’s thinking, it’s replaced by her now one track mind to dig his t-shirt from his jeans. 

 

If he’s in it for forever-- as if there’s any doubt-- he isn’t going to stop her now. Her curious fingers are deterred, and Soul fails to grasp the problem until her eyes snap to the gun holster. Shit. Of course his Glock would be the thing to cock block her. Gently but firmly, he pushes her hands away as he undoes the holster and ejects the magazine popping out the round in the chamber and setting the safety with fluid, years of practiced reflex. And after a second to consider, he ditches the t-shirt along with it onto one of the lounge chairs.

 

She ignites him with that hard look in her eye. Her palms over his body are intoxicating, and he’s watching her intently as she takes a shaky step back. Had his senses been firing on all cylinders he’d have realized they were standing too close to the edge of the pool. Hindsight is merciless-- Maka yelps as she loses her balance.

 

Soul lunges forward to pull her back into his arms, grinning at her obvious sigh of relief as he catches her before she can tip out of his reach.

 

Only, he’s too little, too late. Their combined momentum carries them over the tipping point and they fall into the pool with the grace of an elephant belly flopping into a lake as they go down together.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah... please don't hate me, lol. There are three chapters left! Thanks again to Professor Maka for editing this chapter-- I posted without editing!


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

_ Noooo nooo no, whyyyyyyyy?! _ Maka wants to scream and stomp shit with her boots at the injustice of it all as she and Soul sink to the bottom of the pool like a pair of dejected boulders. Of course,  _ of course, _ she’d be the one to stand too close to the edge and ruin  _ everything _ . 

 

The desire to stay below and drown in her embarrassment is strong, and her will is stubborn enough that she vows to never resurface. Unfortunately for her shame, two strong, capable hands reach in and out she comes coughing and sputtering, face to face with a very worried looking, sopping wet Soul. 

 

“Christ-- are you okay?” he asks, but all Maka can think is how unfair it is that he looks like he’s ready to shoot a cover for a men’s magazine. Damn him, he’s seriously gotten this body from gardening?! Water is still streaming off her hair and out of her nose and it burns. She’s still spluttering as she takes in the landscape-- well a gardening membership would make a good gift-- “Maka?” he asks, tearing her thoughts away from  _ Home and Garden _ .

 

Unable to form words, Maka keeps coughing. She wants to cry, but manages to nod that, yes, she is, in fact, physically okay. Emotionally though, she wants to hurl herself off the face of the earth. His hands are water softened, but still rough as he brushes her bangs away, and she smiles at his concern. It takes her breath away, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when his mouth splits into a relieved grin. And then they’re both laughing, hard. 

 

The tears she’d thought she was going to cry out of embarrassment still spill over, but thankfully in mirth. Maka feels them joining the water droplets on her face, but Soul’s thumbs are there to wipe them away as he pulls her in close and kisses her forehead. 

 

It melts her. Her body shudders with the intensity of it, and because of the buoyancy of the water, it’s easy to hook her arms around his neck. Her legs wrap around his waist of their own volition, and the way he gasps makes her shudder all the more. Her fingers work their way into his starlit locks, while her other hand kneads his shoulder muscles. Taking advantage of her new vantage point, Maka looks over Soul's shoulder at his handiwork. The yard is enclosed with a high privacy fence and she can't see any signs of neighbors or the street. Is she honestly so impatient that she's ready to jump him in the pool?

 

And then she loses the ability to form coherent thoughts, because Soul is nipping at her earlobe, and it feels so incredible that her eyes flutter shut from the sensation. His breath is hot and yet it cools the water droplets to the point where she shivers and her arms are covered in pleasurable goosebumps. 

 

_ Soul _ \-- her chest feels tight with emotion-- she wants to give him hers. 

 

“There’s a bed inside,” he murmurs before pulling his mouth away from her neck. Maka turns her neck back towards the house, twisting slightly on his hips--  _ Good.  _ The idea of pool sex has never appealed to her-- for him, she would’ve made an exception, but for  _ their _ first time, a bed sounds divine. 

 

“Mhm,” she hums as she makes an attempt to unravel herself off his body so they can get inside to resume what they’ve been building towards ever since that first encounter. Strong hands close over her thighs like vices, keeping her firmly in place, and she looks into his deep red eyes. He’s still grinning as he shakes his head very subtly-- they’re already at the edge of the pool, and it's clear he doesn’t plan on letting her go. The heat on her face makes her feel steamy and she worries at her bottom lip, but hangs on for the ride.

 

Instead of heading for the french doors they exited, Soul veers off to the right, padding towards what Maka had assumed was a rock feature. Her breath catches as he rounds the corner, revealing another set of french doors. Just past those, tucked into the corner, is an outdoor shower. “Well, you’re handy,” slips out bluntly, but he only chuckles in response, the sound of it vibrating deep within. 

 

True to form, he manages to turn on the shower without relinquishing his grip on her. And yet, as Maka slides out of his arms, he lets her touch down as he checks the water temperature. It isn’t fair, she thinks as she kicks off her wet boots. Soul really does looks like those magazine spreads now in wet jeans that have molded so sinfully to his ass, even down to his well formed bare feet. She watches helplessly as he steps into the water, jeans and all, running his hands through his hair. This is going to haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. Not that she’s going to start complaining, she thinks as she worries at her thumbnail.

 

Her breath catches; the scratches of her keys from the other night extend from his right hip up to his left shoulder in an angry red slash. Without thinking, Maka steps into the water stream, and a part of her mind registers that it’s neither cold nor hot, somehow the same temperature as the atmosphere, balmy. Her lips touch the red streak that crosses near his sternum softly. She’s not exactly sure what she’s doing. Tentative fingers hold onto the wet denim for a second before she starts undoing the buttons of his fly. 

 

Soul’s ember red gaze is observing her curiously when Maka looks up after she finishes with the last button. She runs her hands under the waistband of his jeans and then gasps in surprise because she’d expected--

 

“Ran out--” His face is going red and it’s fucking endearing. “--Ha-ah-ven’t done laundry,” he barely finishes, because she has a one track mind. The jeans hit the slatted teak floor of the shower with a wet slap, accompanied by the soft sound of the water from the shower. He's beautiful standing under the rain shower, and Maka feels shaky as she draws in a deep breath. 

 

Heart thundering, she takes him in her hand, the sound of his gasping breath powerful in her ears; knowing that she’s doing this to him gives her a strange sort of courage. “Is this okay?” she asks, watching the corner of his mouth quirk up as he nods enthusiastically. He towers over her, his arms outstretched on the rocks behind her. The water allows her hand to slide along his length smoothly, and the desire she’d experienced on the ship crashes into her like a tidal wave, causing her heart to hammer in her chest. 

 

Ever so slowly, she sinks down into the protection of the rain shadow he’s created with his body, mapping out the smooth lines of his torso with her free hand and kissing the line of angry keys down to the sharp bone of his hips, noting with great curiosity that line of soft hair that begins at his navel and ends at the apex of his thighs matches the starlight hue. His eyes fly open when she rests his tip on her lips. 

 

“Maka,” he gasps, but with the way his legs are shaking she doesn’t think he’ll stop her, not really. She doesn’t want him to, she’s burning with curiosity to know him-- taste him. “You- don’t--”

 

The ‘shoosh’ against his head is enough to silence him, and one of his hands comes down so he can clamp teeth on his knuckles. She smiles against the satin of his skin before she takes him in, and she moans around his silkiness and heat. Her eyes flutter open at the touch of his palm along her jaw, his thumb caressing her cheek. His soul is bared through those sleepy bedroom eyes of his, but he’s guiding her up, gathering her into his arms. “You really are something else, Maka,” he whispers, before claiming her mouth with his. 

 

And she holds him to her as tightly as she’s able, only to realize that she’s completely overdressed. Hating herself for a minute, she breaks away from him. A small part of her wonders if they’ve used up all the hot water, but it’s still warm as it cascades over her.  Taking a deep breath, she crosses her arms to grab the edges of her still dripping t-shirt, peeling it over her head flinging it to join his jeans. 

 

He’s running his tongue over those sharp, curious teeth of his as he watches her hands go to the front clasp of her white bralette. There is no room for embarrassment, not when his dick twitches as her hands come away with the white lacy fabric. Still though, she can feel her blush steaming, and yet, she’d been raised to understand that without a little fear there is no cause for courage. So, if she’s going to do this, and blush through it all, then damnit so be it. 

 

Before her hands can undo the zipper to her skirt there’s a rough, warm hand palming her chest. Her breath hisses when he rolls her nipple with his thumb and forefinger. “Shhhit-- sorry.” He starts to apologize, but her teeth release their hold on her bottom lip as her head rolls back. 

 

“No--”  _ Don’t stop.  _ Her voice becomes unsteady when he goes back to it. “It feels good.”

 

The next thing she knows is his fingers are replaced by his mouth and tongue, and her knees buckle involuntarily, because  _ holy hell.  _ Soul flicks from one nipple to the next with only his tongue, and nothing else, with maddening repetition until Maka growls in frustration, and pulls him to her chest, holding him there firmly until he settles on one. Gently at first, only to grow in intensity, clamping down on the whole thing and drawing the nub in to the roof of his mouth pulling on it relentlessly. The sensation of his tongue over her skin burns her, fueling her desire. 

 

Her insides are clenching and unclenching, flooding with a steamy moisture that has nothing to do with the shower. She sags in his arms, her head resting on his as she tries to remember basic things like her own name. 

 

Somehow he reaches around her to shut off the water, and then scoops her up into his arms, and she excitedly wraps her legs around his naked torso. 

 

There'll be time to take in her surroundings later-- Maka’s never been so happy to collapse into a bed before in her life. Before she can really do much of anything, his mouth is clamped to her tit again. Thankfully, his hands are carefully trying to undo the zipper of her wet skirt, and about the only thing she can do is help with the hook clasp that he missed. 

 

A small, vulnerable part of her hopes he doesn’t notice the latticework of scars she’s accumulated during her time as DCA-- but she stuffs the thought into her mental closet. She means to scoot down so she can rub herself against his erection, but the way he’s holding her indicates he isn’t going to let her pleasure him. 

 

When he does move, her hands fly to remove her underwear, and he’s so still sitting back on his heels near the edge of the bed, his erection pulsing between them. Maka pushes herself up on her elbows, contemplating him as he takes her in. She’s so…  _ uncomfortable…  _ the only thing she can think to do is relieve some of her own discomfort. 

 

She’s watching him and he’s watching her, so she sees the moment her fingers slip through her short curls written in the expression on his face. She should be ashamed, but she is far from it; it feels exhilarating, and so much better under his careful watch. The soft moans that escape her are intensified by the sight of him there, her fantasy made flesh and blood. 

 

“Fuck, Maka,” he breathes, moving off the bed to stand between her parted legs like a man who’s found water in a desert. The sight of him crawling back onto the bed makes her keen, clenching around her frantic fingers. He’s wearing a shit eating grin when his strong hand stills her motions, touch as gentle as when he’d guided her off of his cock. He guides her hand away, interlocking his with hers. Half propped up the way she is, she reads his full intention on his face, and she isn’t sure how to anticipate what he’s going to do next. 

 

The heat and slickness of his tongue, coupled with his groan make her hips buck at the intensity of how different-- how incredible it feels. And if his ministrations to her breasts were intense, they have nothing on the things his tongue is doing to her now, and how is he flicking it like that,  _ there?!  _

 

One hand is in his hair, while the other squeezes his hand, and it’s all she can do to hold on for dear life-- _ for life _ \-- she never wants to let go. Shit shit  _ shit!  _ There’s no need to keep silent, not when, holy hell. “Soul!” she gasps. She wants him to hear that she loves what he’s doing to her. That she  _ loves _ him, only him. 

 

Maka’s legs are trembling against his broad shoulders, but then again so is he, she can feel him trembling and looking down to see if he’s okay she finds him looking at her and  _ fuck fuck fuck--  _ she nearly comes undone with just  _ that look _ . He knows! He knows what he’s doing to her. 

 

At this point, she’s not sure if she even cares if there’s a condom in sight--  _ shit! _ No, that isn't quite right, but Soul’s hovering over her and she wants him. Only, he stretches past her to his bedside table and returns with a rather small box in his hands. The three condom gas station special--while he extracts one, she’s sending Liz all her thanks because there’s no way in hell that little box is going to sate her desire, and then Maka banishes all thoughts as Soul returns to her. 

 

There’s pressure where his mouth had been, but his mouth has now returned to hers, her heart is racing, her lashes fluttering, and she makes the choice to go into this with open eyes-- just like Soul is. 

 

They both are panting, he is wide eyed as she pushes herself down carefully to meet his slow thrust.  There's a lot of pressure, but it isn't as painful as she's always assumed it'd be, and she does gasp at the fullness of him as they lay still. Taking deep breaths, her hands go to his head, her anchor. She doesn’t think her fingers will ever get their fill of being woven in his hair. 

 

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

 

“Mmm,” she hums. “You?” Her face is splitting into a smile, she can feel it, it’s pure happiness. 

 

His eyes flutter shut as he lets out a very shaky breath, and draws an even more unsteady one. “Hu-- hold still a sec,” he says, voice strained, colored with a vulnerability that is only matched by her own.   

 

But-- but no. Not possible-- there’s no way-- no! “You’re… this is your first time--” 

 

A deep blush blooms on his face. “That obvious?” he asks, trying to avert his eyes, but Maka holds his face gently in her palms.

 

“No no no.” Her own face must match his. “Me too,” she whispers, caught again between wanting to giggle and cry all at the same time. 

 

His eyes are back on hers, intense in their heat as he tries to shake his head while she nods. Still though, he shudders and it’s her turn to bring him back to her mouth to lay claim to what she’s only desired for the first time in her life just over the past few weeks. Instinct takes over as her body settles into a rocking motion, tight against him. And like with every other interaction they’ve shared, the gentle motion becomes much more overpowering as Soul starts drawing away only to drive into her with a growing intensity which she meets just as eagerly. 

 

The weight of him, his harsh breath matching her own, the way her name is on his lips is driving her to the edge, a chasm that grows in magnitude, the sense of a wave that’s growing and swelling. Her rough breathing has his name on her lips, urging him to come with her.

 

It hits her like the eye of a storm. She’s suspended, weightless, holding her breath until it comes crashing in around her as Soul locks his arms around her, tightly driving in one last time, shuddering and spent with her trembling all around him. 

 

Maka is drained, a feeling of having washed upon the shore where all she wants to do is melt into the sands never to return again. Soul’s head is on her chest, rising and falling with her panting breaths mirrored by his. 

 

They spend a few moments in their silent glow, neither with any urge to move. Until a bubble of laughter bursts out of her, and from his positions on her tummy he quirks his eyebrows as if wondering what’s so funny. “I’m impressed, Hollywood,” she says, trying to keep a lid on her mirth.

 

“Oh?” he asks while he places his lips on her skin, puffing air against her torso. 

 

She’s accepted the fact that her fingers will live in his hair and enjoys scratching at his scalp. “I think I got to the point where I didn’t care if the condom was on or not--” Which is possibly the most reckless thing she’s ever admitted. “I’m pretty sure that’s in violation of DCA code of conduct.” 

 

He’s nipping at her skin where goosebumps have returned, but he’s wearing such a smug look that she playfully shoves against his shoulder. “What?”

 

The look he gives her is pure gold. “Soooo, does that mean I get a medal since I handled it?” he asks, rolling over and taking her with him. 

 

“You would!” she tries to say, but his tickling hands cut her off in a fit of giggles. Still she manages to roll away from him so she can walk her fingers down his torso. "Well… when you’re  _ up  _ for it. I’ll show you exactly where you can hang it,” she laughs, because the idea of talking dirty is just so stupid and humorous to her. Her fingers do get the point across because his eyebrows shoot up. 

 

“Miss Albarn-- I’m shocked,” he says with mock innocence, trying to hide behind his cool guy persona and completely failing due to the growing blush. His mouth is gaping, trying to formulate some coherent response, and it’s just too much fun. 

 

“I know,” Maka says, very seriously. “Who could have predicted dumping me into your pool could have had such catastrophic consequences--”

 

“You tripped, Albarn” he corrects her with such a straight face that she gives a wordless screech and attempts to smack him with one of the pillows on his  _ massive _ bed. 

 

“That’s  _ Lieutenant  _ Albarn to you,  _ Hollywood _ !” 

 

They both dissolve into wordless laughter.

  
  
  


The jade heart on her chest glitters in the afternoon sun coming in through the french windows. Most of the covers are hanging off his giant four poster, not that it matters. This is the best his room has ever looked, let alone felt.

 

It’s nothing short of a miracle, he thinks, the fact that she’s here tucked securely in his arms. “What’s this one from?” he asks, fingers tracing over a thin scar along her wrist. He’s been at this for the past half hour. 

 

After considering it for a moment. “My cat.”

 

“Ouch.” His lips kiss the smooth pale line of her scar. There a burning curiosity, he wants to ask, and yet, it doesn’t matter, does it? The G trembles through his mind as he continues to map out the various scars he’s becoming intimately acquainted with.

 

“It’s like I can hear you worrying at your thoughts,” Maka says, voice low as she twists his hair in her fingers. He bites the inside of his cheek; it’s rude to ask. “I tend to think that men find me scary,” she says. Soul looks up to find her green eyes carefully observing him. “Or were you curious about something else?” she asks.

 

His mouth gapes a little. “How do you do that?” he asks, connecting the map of her scars. “I am curious--  _ no one? _ Not even…” he trails off, he can’t.

 

"Not even?" Maka repeats, but Soul's eyes are studiously flitting between her ears, nose, and mouth, avoiding her gaze as he shakes his head. 

 

“Starinsky?” Maka blurts with laughter. “Oh god no. Soul, he’s-- he’s probably more interested in you than me. Well, no, he’s been with Kid for years. Star’s gay.”

 

“No shit?”  _ Huh, _ and then a number of things click into place. 

 

“Oh oh  _ oh _ \-- you thought-- no. No! _ No.  _ I thought you knew,” Maka says easily, now pulling gently on his earlobes. The simple act sends pulsing sensation further below. Soul watches her expression grow pensive. “I don’t let people in.” Her admission is quiet. “And, sex isn’t something I ever thought would interest me. Plus, before the Navy, there was school, my parents' crap-- after that, there’s only been the job.” Her freckles are starting to glow again. “I guess working with so many guys, I learned not to take their shit seriously. Then again, the fact that I can kick their asses isn’t lost on them,” she says simply. 

 

“They’re idiots, the lot of them,” he tells her, matter of fact. 

 

Her face breaks into a grin. “I don’t know. I’m kind of a hard ass.” 

 

He nods in agreement so she tugs on his hair and he’s already past half mast. “I meant your ass--” His hands cup her rear, making her gasp. The rest he punctuates with kisses. “For the record, I think it’s hot you can kick my ass.” He’s found his way back to her nipple. 

 

“So this is how you win all the ladies?” she asks, trying hard to hold her deadpan. 

 

For his part, Soul surveys his room dramatically, only to land back on her. “Yeah, all of the only one I’ve ever wanted. Gotta make sure I don’t run her off,” he says, relishing in her sharp intake of breath even though there’s a slight hint of skepticism in the set of her lips. He’s earnest when he says, “Seeing what my mom was put through, I promised myself that if I wasn’t in it for the long haul there was no point. Plus, a wicked bad case of teenage angst and horrific acne didn’t help much.” She's raising her eyebrows with disbelief. “Oh god, Maka, I fell of the socially awkward branch of the family tree and hit every limb on the way down.” That has her laughing and then squirming from the raspberries he’s blowing on her belly. “I was just blessed with a face set permanently to ‘fuck off’ mode.”

 

“You mean ‘fuck me’ mode,” she says, with a wry twist of the lips he’s getting ready to kiss again. 

 

“Fuck me?” he asks, wondering what she means exactly, but the solemn nod and waggle of eyebrows have him on instant alert. 

 

The world rolls on him as she flips him over onto his back, long legs straddling his sides. He’s not sure where she’s going as she reaches over him, but he takes the opportunity to lick her pale torso. She takes his breath when she settles back over him shaking the small box of condoms. “I thought you’d never ask,” she says, coyly blowing her bangs out of her face as she takes out another foil pack. “Um, so, how do I do this?” she asks, face flaming. 

 

//

 

Soul hitches the towel around his hips more securely as he goes to step out of the en-suite bathroom, and his breath catches as he’s stopped short by the sight of Maka donning the white cotton panties she laid out on the bed before her shower. She steps into the practical fabric, pulling it over those impossibly long legs, and she’s completely oblivious of the fact she’s turning him on for the millionth time over the past day and a half. She’s beautiful-- not to mention fucking hot. 

 

The frame of the door bites into his forearm, but he doesn’t care as he watches her hand go for the bra. Soul wants to say something-- it shouldn’t be so hard to watch her conceal those perfectly pert tits, but it is. He’s spent the better part of the afternoon licking, teasing, and tasting them. He isn’t ready for this evening and he curses it, sighing heavily. Dread settles into his gut as he has to return to duty, and the persona he has no desire to be. 

 

In the room, Maka has turned to retrieve her brush from her bag sitting on the dresser opposite his four poster. True to his world, he’d made her dinner, steak and sauteed asparagus. He’d eventually run out to retrieve her bag and was certainly glad he had when Maka had uncovered the Costco box of Trojans provided by one Dr. Thompson. Maka had short circuited his heart when she walked out of the master bath in nothing but silk shorts and matching lace trimmed cami, a deep blood red. 

 

His dick is growing hard at the mere thought of the memory. Needless to say, they didn’t get much sleep last night. 

 

Maka turns towards the bathroom, looking up with her brush midstroke, lashes fluttering, fanning the cheeks that are becoming the color of the nightie in question. He’s pretty sure she’s resonating with the G that makes up her melody-- she’d made him play for her when she realized the piano wasn’t just a stage piece-- that or she can read his mind, because the towel is mostly hiding the most obvious clue. 

 

“Ah, hi,” she says, smiling sunshine at him. 

 

He crosses the distance to her, wrapping her up in his arms and bending to nuzzle his nose into the hollow of her neck just so he can bury his face in the damp silkiness of her hair, inhaling deeply. When he straightens, he runs his fingers through the silk starting from her scalp. Maka sighs deeply as she wraps her arms around him.

 

_ Fuck! _ “You can’t,” he says, repeating the motion to a much deeper, prolonged sigh from her lips.

 

“Mmm?” she hums, opening her eyes to better understand his fuss.

 

“You can’t make  _ that _ sound and expect that we’ll actually get out of this room. Let alone make it to base and to the Officer’s Club,” he tries to explain, running his hands through her hair again to another deep sigh. 

 

“Why not?” She’s looking at him from under her lashes. 

 

His hand sweeps her hair off of her shoulder, and he runs the tip of his nose along the hollow of her neck until he whispers into her ear. “‘Cause that’s the exact same sound you make when I enter you.” 

 

“Oh?” She sighs  _ again _ \-- fuuuck! The heat of the green sears him, and he trembles. “Okay, then don’t run your hands through my hair with  _ that _ look in your eyes.” 

 

“What look?” His innocence is feigned. 

 

“The one that makes it clear you’re really thinking of running your hands over my body.” 

 

Soul’s hand trails down her arm and gently takes the brush from her, tossing it onto the bed. “Fuck-- you’re right,” he says, conceding before he claims her mouth with his, idle hands doing the deed they’ve been accused of. 

 

Time loses meaning, and five minutes go by before Maka says, “Soul?”

 

He hums into her lips, “Mmm?” 

 

“We’re going to be late if you keep distracting me,” she says, her forehead rolling gently against his. 

 

_ Fuck,  _ he groans, “I know.” 

 

“Awww--” She reaches up on tiptoe to kiss his chin. “You look so miserable. Look, the sooner we get there the sooner we can get back. I’d be up for a midnight swim…” she trails off suggestively, and it’s all the motivation he needs. 

 

This isn’t the way he wants to spend their Saturday night, at some retirement party, but Maka had been persuasive--  _ very _ persuasive. And he’d agreed. 

 

Her face scrunches in momentary pain. “You okay?” he asks, rubbing her shoulders only to elicit another deep sigh. 

 

“Mmm, just sore,” she says, then adds, “That feels so good.” Fuck they had gotten sort of rough earlier in the afternoon. “I’m not complaining either-- so don’t start worrying.” 

 

It was her idea, he grins at the memory. Still though, she’s taken quite a beating since she’s known him… because of  _ him. _ His fingers lightly trace the stitches that should be coming out on Monday. 

 

“Stop,” Maka says. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Her fingers are trailing over the faint red lines left by her keys. “I did my own damage.” 

 

He thinks of the towel she used that night. “Yeah, I don’t recall minding when you, uh, took the sting away,” he says, gasping when her fingers follow the faint line below the edge of his towel. He takes her hand in his and kisses her fingertips one by one. “So, who taught you that particular war move?” he asks, curiosity brimming.

 

“Benji, actually,” she says, with a laugh. 

 

“Benji, as in  _ Starinsky?! _ ” Tone incredulous.

 

“The very same. He and a few others in our ROTC unit got some of us women together to teach us a few things after there was a rape on campus,” she says quietly. 

 

Soul’s jaw sets, begrudgingly grateful to the loudmouthed lieutenant. Not that the news sits well in his gut after his last search during sea-and-anchor duty early yesterday morning. He looks down into the very observant eyes of Maka Albarn, and he stuffs his panic into the black room as he tries to rearrange his features to divert attention from anything he may have revealed. 

 

He doesn’t want to put her in a tough position with one of her best friends, and especially not tonight. Not if he can avoid it. 

 

For her part, Maka turns to the bed where she’s laid out a black tank dress. “I think he just wanted to be sure I could protect myself.”

 

“From?” Soul asks, before he’s sure he wants to know.

 

Maka’s back straightens. “I told you how Bale had made an attempt--” Soul’s nails dig into his hands; she’d said there was nothing there,  _ oh god  _ “-- Turns out it’s harder to protect yourself from words,” she sighs, turning to sit at the edge of the bed. 

 

_ Words?  _ Soul isn’t sure where she’s going with this, but he senses it isn’t the easiest thing to talk about. “Maka, you don’t have to tell me--”

 

“I do though--” Her fingers are going through her, hair braiding it, but he realizes it’s because she’s trying to keep her mind focused on something else “--for me.”

 

There’s a strange sensation of fear in his gut, but he reaches out to still her fingers. “Okay, but, will you do something for me?” he asks, and when she looks up at him, his hand stills her fingers. “Could you leave your hair down, please?”

 

Tension radiates from her shoulders, but they hitch and finally relax as she nods okay. He takes another step closer. “It’s fine. It’s stupid really. When I refused him, I was thinking I’d have to fight him, but no. He just took one look at me and scoffed. He said if it came down to it, I’d pick the Navy over a man any day and it wasn’t worth the effort for a flat chest.” She tries to laugh it off, but there’s very real pain underneath it all. 

 

In the black room of his soul, the madness leaks a little-- would she though? Pick the Navy over a man? 

 

“I told him that no sack of shit like him could make dating let alone a future together more appealing than the sea,” she laughs, more earnestly. The blood is rushing in his ears, the G cutting to the sound of white noise as Maka pulls the world out from under him. “Starinsky says nothing short of a minor miracle will get me to put a man before the fleet, ever.” Maka sighs. “Who knows, he’s probably right.” 

 

Soul just stands there rocked to his core as Maka stuffs his foolish hope into the garbage. He can’t even speak. Vaguely, he registers that she’s mentioned needing something from the bathroom. He can only nod numbly as she passes by him. 

 

So that’s it? He’s rusted in place, trying to tamp down the agony ripping through him. The reality that the woman he’d give his life for might never consider dating, let alone a possible future together, smashes into him, taking his fragile hopes and dreams and pulverizing them into dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Readers thanks for your patience. I had some intense family things come up. I hope you all enjoy this- this whole chapter is the reason I took it upon myself to write the 13 chapters that preceded and the two that follow. I definitely urge y'all to read Candace Irvin's original version For His Eyes Only. As always, I'm so grateful for the sweet individuals who took their time to go through this prior to mass release and to give the best constructive critiques. Honestly, it wouldn't be as good without their feedback. I love each and every one of you! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Usually I do these at the end and eventually I'll move it below. But, 2019 can suck it, it's been possibly one of the most difficult years I've had in a long time. Even though this was written out I haven't been able to post. Editing still takes just as much time as actual writing. I love my beta boos so much, they've been so supportive and encouraging (and everyone is juggling real life stuff) so be kind out there. -sahdah

 

“Holy shit--” Soul’s eyebrow goes up at the doctor’s expletive “--you actually showed up. I was starting to think you might be trying to get through the box before Monday,” Liz says, appraising him intensely.

 

Soul tries for a nonchalant, "Maybe."  He snags a plate from the buffet table trying to stuff his grin out of sight as he extends the plate to her. But, he can’t help the smile he gives the tall blond, the first genuine one he’s had since they arrived. “Thanks, by the way.”

 

Liz laughs heartily accepting the plate with a shimmy shake of victory. “Anytime.” She starts loading up on jumbo shrimp while Soul grabs a plate for himself. “I should warn you though, the Captain trapped our girl a little bit ago, so if you plan to have another go at that box, you should wait a few minutes and then spring her,” she says seriously as she takes a champagne flute before sipping delicately. There’s a moment of indecisive fidgeting before she blurts, “I have to ask, how the hell did you get her here tonight?” 

 

“How did I…?” There must be some confusion. Soul shakes his head because everyone seems to think he’s the one who asked when it was the other way around, and he says as much. 

 

Liz turns a deadpan face on him, and Soul feels like he made the punchline to the lamest joke. “Sorry, I could’ve sworn you said  _ she  _ asked you.”

 

“Because I did.” Soul takes a precursory sip of champagne-- it’s no Dom Perignon but it’ll do the job. Isn’t this part of the charade? Attend the social things, rub elbows with the right people, inflate the brass’ ego-- whatever it takes for that next promotion? 

 

“ _ Maka Albarn _ asked you--” Liz is shaking her head in disbelief. “We cannot be talking about the same woman.” 

 

Her certainty has Soul searching across the room until he finds Maka standing next to Captain Buttataki and  _ Death City’s _ executive officer. His brain doesn’t quite believe his eyes, so he keeps staring. 

 

No shit? Liz  _ is  _ right. 

 

Even at this distance, he can tell the effort to stay focused is costing her. Maka’s eyes are glazed over, but she’s determined not to let the boredom show. When the Supply Officer joins the group, her relief is palpable to him anyway. Soul bites back the grin thinking that snoring through your Captain’s sea stories doesn’t bode well for promotions, at least from what he understands of ass kissing. 

 

He observes her more carefully. Dad gets off on this shit, lives for it, even now. Her forest green gaze finds his making his heart skip a beat, and there’s no denying the relief he sees there now nor the message she’s flashing at him like an SOS.  _ HELP me! Please! _

 

Soul’s poor wreck of a heart swoops at the possibility that the only thing she has in common with dear ol’ dad is the uniform. Still though, what Bale had said haunts him-- even her best friend agrees. It’s just that if her priority is the Navy there’s no way he’ll survive it. He can’t-- not this time. The black room swirls within the circular loop, a perpetual dog chasing its tail. He isn’t sure what to believe.

 

His eyes flit back up to find her smiling gaze again-- it’s hard not to soar on the wings of hope at what he finds written there.  _ I want you. Now. _ As clear as if she’d whispered the words in his ear.

 

“Soul?” A manicured hand taps his arm.

 

He can’t look away from where Maka is making some excuse to the Captain so she can begin to weave her way over. “Huh?” 

 

“I asked if you’re okay,” Liz says, with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

Soul still hasn’t broken eye contact with Maka, and he grins when she sends him a look of exasperation as someone else stops her. “Yeah-- ‘m good.” Gettin’ better by the second.

 

“Oh my god, you’re a disaster--” Just then, Liz’s phone goes off. “Are you kidding me?” Soul blinks finally looking back at the tall doctor who has answered her phone. “Lieutenant Thompson-- Yeah…? Yeah. I’ll be there soon.” She stabs the end button like it’s personally offended her. Soul quirks an eyebrow. “It’s the ship-- there’s a patient in sick bay I need to admit to the base hospital. Tonight-- during a party.” Her face goes dark before the clouds pass. “Will you tell Maka I had to go?" He nods.  "Thanks, I appreciate it.” 

 

“Yeah, no problem,” he calls after her, and then turns back to the buffet table with a half-baked ploy to use the plate to lure Maka away from the Chief Engineer. He needs to ask her if she really believes everything she’d said to him earlier this afternoon. 

 

“You planning on running a marathon or something?” 

 

The sound of her voice glissandos from the base of his spine to his head and it has the Icarus feathers trembling. Soul looks over his shoulder to see Maka has escaped without his help and she’s eyeing his plate skeptically. “Actually, this is for you.” He extends it to her with a grin. 

 

“I don’t do raw fish.” Her lips have pulled into a thin tight line, reminiscent of the look he’d often give his mother when she’d make him eat tomatoes. 

 

“Relax,” Soul says. “That’s for me.” He pulls a piece of pink salmon off the plate tilting his head back to swallow the piece whole, much like he’d do with school jello when he was a kid. Something about those sorts of foods going down his throat intact-- and then a completely different visual pops into mind and he nearly chokes. 

 

Maka looks him over with astute eyes accurately deciphering what he's clearly envisioning. “There’s no way I can finish even half of that,” she says, the hint of a smirk ghosting her lips. 

 

“I mean, I’m just thinking of you. Don’t want your blood sugar tanking later.” The way her eyes darken to spruce make his heart rate pick up. And then her freckles start darkening. God, he loves her blushes. 

 

“I was  _ tired _ ,” she pouts and it’s all he can do to keep himself from kissing that frowny bottom lip. “You’re wearing me out!”

 

He dips low to whisper in her ear. “I think you’ve got that backwards.” She takes the plate from his hands as he reaches for a second flute. “Gotta keep  _ your _ strength up so you can wear me out again… and again.” Now he understands the kick his brother gets from the eyebrow waggle. 

 

Her pearly white teeth bite at her lower lip and he knows this isn’t the place to be having this conversation, but it’s too much fun. Not that they can do anything about it-- Maka knows this too, and wisely changes the topic. “You’re absolutely ridiculous-- what’d Liz have to say?”

 

“She uh asked if we needed a refill.” Her blushes are going to end him.

 

“I’m going to kill her,” she says, fingers toying with some of the offerings on the plate. 

 

“Nah, I told her we’d need at least a week,” he teases, laughing around the piece of salmon she’s vindictively stuffed into his mouth. Her hand goes to wipe something off her nose, but then he realizes she’s discretely flipping him off and he nearly chokes a second time. He starts on the minor scales in order to ease his growing discomfort, and changes the topic himself. “So, actually, Liz was really surprised to see us here.  _ You  _ especially…” He leaves it hanging.

 

Maka’s laughter sets his skin tingling. “Surprised? See, I was thinking it might be better to skip out in case she had a conniption.”

 

Seriously? “You  _ really _ don’t want to be here?” he asks, trying to make sense of everything.

 

She’s scanning the room before she leans into him making him bend to catch her next words. “Given a choice, would you rather be here or at home?” she asks softly, and the sound of it sends a shiver down his spine. 

 

Soul pulls away staring at her, befuddlement coloring his face. The G trembles in a soft vibrato at her use of the word  _ home.  _ “Wait-- so if you don’t want to be here. I sure as hell don’t want to be here. Then why are we here, exactly?” 

 

The bridge of her nose goes a deeper rose and she looks at him in surprise. “The case.” 

 

“What case?” He asks, unintelligently thinking that maybe there’s something she needs to pick up supplies from the ship although she hadn't mentioned anything. 

 

“Really, Soul. Are you kidding me?” Maka bumps his hip. “ _ Your _ case. Starinksy. Bale... They eat this shit up. Well Star more literally, but you get me.” Maka is talking fast clearly embarrassed by having to spell it out, hands moving with her words. “I mean, isn’t it the whole reason you came aboard. I haven’t seen them yet, but they’re bound to show. I just thought that maybe you’d pick up a clue or something.” Her hands move to fidget with the black fabric of her dress, the embarrassment extending down her neck as she ends with a shrug.  

 

He’s a fucking idiot. Maka’s brought him here-- somewhere she  _ clearly _ doesn’t want to be-- simply because it might help him solve  _ his _ case. Soul is floored, and if he wasn’t in love with her already, he’d be falling all over again.

 

The anxiety leaking out of the black room is quelled. She isn’t his father. It’s stupid it’s taken him this long to accept it. Soul, long since accustomed to being second fiddle, let his past warp the very real evidence that Maka has been keenly aware of his needs. Bale is wrong and by extension so is Starinsky-- she’s had his best interests at heart this whole time, and he’s been blinded by his own insecurities. Not cool.

 

And now that he has his answer, he has to come clean. Technically, he hasn’t lied to her about anything but he knows deep down that his omission won’t go over well with someone like Maka. 

 

“Soul?” 

 

He looks at her putting his heart into his smile. “Yeah?”

 

“I was going to ask what you were thinking but I think I already know,” she says sheepishly rubbing her arm with her hand.

 

“Maka,” he starts, but this isn’t a subject he wants to discuss with her here. Soul takes the plate from her hand and sets it on one of the tall cocktail tables that litter the space. “Let’s go, there’s something I need to tell you--”   
  


“ _ Easton _ ! Is that you?” A pompous voice bellows behind them.  

 

_ Fuck! _ His back goes ramrod straight like he’s been branded. Unable to cut and run, Soul nearly snaps the crystal stem in two. He’s rapidly considering a scenario where he takes Maka’s hand and just gets the hell out, but it’s too late. She’s already turning towards a voice from his nightmares. 

 

This is karma rearing an ugly face and in light of the fact that he was already getting ready to tell Maka the truth. It’s salt in a festering wound. The worst of it is, he’s not sure he’ll be able to blunder his way through this shit storm.

 

“ _ Easton, mah boy! _ ” 

 

No dice-- Soul turns slowly, not even attempting to force a smile. “Hey there, admiral,” he grits out. 

 

Admiral Brenton’s face splits into a wide eyed smile amplified by his lazy eye. It always bothered Soul as a child that he could never tell exactly where the short, pompous man was looking. Waving his walking stick, he's loud as he exclaims, “Well batten down the hatches, it  _ is  _ you, Easton! I’ve told you before, mah boy, the name’s Arthur.” 

 

Soul wants to die. He doesn’t need to look at Maka to feel the surprise radiating off of her, the G has gone out of tune in his head. At any rate, now she knows what the  _ E _ stands for, which always felt more pretentious than Soul. As pretentious as being on a first name basis with an admiral. 

 

The salmon now sits uncomfortable in his gut. There’s no way in hell Maka won’t put two and two together. And yet, Soul hangs onto some misguided hope that she won't connect these dots.

 

Unaware of Soul’s existential crisis, Arthur Brenton continues boisterously. “How is the old goat?”

 

Soul barks out a nervous laugh. How the fuck should he know? Aside from that strained phone call the day he came aboard the  _ Death City,  _ he hadn’t heard from his ol’ man in three years. And the whole point of the call had been to be berate Soul about keeping  _ his  _ identity secret. As if Soul’s livelihood didn’t depend on mastering that detail for himself. Asshole. 

 

“Far as I know, he’s fine. What about yourself?” Soul asks, trying to get the man talking about himself. “I don’t see the missus.”

 

“Oh mah boy, you know she could never stand these things. I just came out to congratulate the captain on his recent promotion.” His cheeks are rosy probably from one too many glasses of champagne, and Soul isn’t sure if his focus is on him or on a clearly perplexed Maka who hasn’t said a word since the start of this madness. “So Easton, are you here on your own-- I didn’t see your father... or is this young lady the reason?” His head turns in Maka’s direction leaving Soul transfixed by one eye. 

 

Soul watches helplessly as Maka extends her hand. “Lieutenant Maka Albarn, DCA.  _ USS Death City _ .”

 

“Well I’ll be, the DCA’s are getting prettier every year,” Arthur says, grinning wide, returning her shake. 

  
“Thank you,  _ sir _ ,” Maka says, with a cool smile. 

 

Soul doesn’t miss the flex of her jaw, and he latches onto the subtle hint. Raising his glass to the man, he says. “Well, sir, it was nice to see you again. If you’ll excuse us.”

 

“I’ll say! Almost like old times,” the man says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Take care, mah boy, and tell that old sea dog of a father of yours to get off his lofty perch and give me a call sometime. I’m at SURFPAC these days.” He walks away in his dress whites oblivious of the mess he’s left in his wake. 

 

_ “Sea dog?” _ Maka hisses, after the fool has cleared hearing distance. 

 

His eyes close trying to avoid facing the music, he knows she’s figured out his father is a sailor. The next step isn’t difficult, his father’s so far up her chain of command, a monkey with three bananas could connect the dots. Fuck him, he’d been so close--  _ sea dog. _

 

When he dares to open his eyes, he knows she knows. And she is  _ not  _ amused.

 

“Excuse me, I have a hail and farewell I need to get back to,” she says, expression unreadable as she tries to skirt around him. 

 

“Maka--” He tries to reach for her hand. “I was going to explain--”

 

She rounds on him stepping back into his personal space and he reflexively looks for the fire extinguisher and regrets his fight or flight response. “When, Soul? When exactly were you going to explain  _ that  _ little detail? And while you’re at it, please explain why you’ve continue to play the naval idiot even after you told me your  _ real _ name,” her quiet, wordless shriek is loud enough for only him to hear. “Then, please, explain the fact that you didn’t tell me I’ve now slept with  _ the son of my boss!” _

 

Her whisper slices at him but that last comment irritates him enough to push back. “My father is  _ not _ your boss.” 

 

The green intensifies now laced with acid. “Oh, no no  _ Mr. Evans  _ he most certainly is!  _ Admiral Edgar G. Evans _ is Commander Fifth Fleet and that-- though several times removed-- makes him my boss. Or did you seriously fail to notice his striking portrait on the quarter deck of my ship-- each and every time you passed it?!” 

 

In his hand the champagne flute is shaking. “Fine,  _ fuck _ \-- fine! I’ll give you that. But there are four fleet admirals-- it’s no secret that my father has a son who’s DEA. If I’d told you he was Navy how long do you think my cover would have survived? You pieced it together within seconds.”

 

The moment is held for a moment suspended in a bead of silence. “That’s not why I’m angry Soul and you know it.” Her voice is low, unsteady. “You  _ trusted _ me with the rest-- why not this?”

 

Her green eyes pierce him, she has him there. And his stomach roils with the inability to get into his family history and the years of insecurities he hasn’t faced up to just yet. Taking a breath, his eyes go skyward, sending a prayer to the heavens that she’ll understand. “Maka-- the information was need to know. As an officer, you should understand-- it was a risk I wasn’t given permission to take.”

 

Her lips draw into a hard ‘o’ as she sucks in a breath before her mouth shuts forcefully, clenched tight and her eyebrows fly under her bangs. “A  _ risk?  _  Really-- you’re telling me I’m a risk, now?!” She takes a swift step away from him as he steps forward to follow in a bizzare jerky sort of dance as he is unwilling for her to leave just yet. God, he’s fucking this up.

 

“That’s not what I said, and you know it,” he says, frustrated that she’s stubbornly refusing to see it his way.  

 

“You’re right, I sure do.” Her jaw is working overtime and the anxiety, now broken free of the dam, is spewing from the black room as he watches several emotions cross her face. The one she settles on isn’t favorable. It’s a self deprecating smile. “You know what else I know--” She doesn’t wait for him to respond “--Exactly, how you  _ feel _ about your father’s family business.”    

 

Lord, his mind is racing as he tried to find a way to mend how badly he’s fucked this up. “Maka--” he tries.

 

She’s not listening. “If you’ll excuse me-- I need to get out of here.”

 

“I’ll take you,” he says, earnestly, wishing he could go back in time. 

 

“Don’t bother--” Maka shoulders past him. “I can find my way myself.” 

 

Soul wants to tear at his hair at the injustice of it all. If she’d just given him a minute to explain-- he takes another step in her direction.

 

“I wouldn’t do that.” Lieutenant Starinky’s voice casually cuts across his intention.

 

As if the man could get in his way. “I wasn’t asking for your permission.” 

 

The guy looks bored as he steps up into Soul’s personal bubble, but those blue eyes are colder than ice. “Maka isn’t one to suffer fools lightly, if you’ve really got her best interests at heart, let her walk it off.” Starinsky gives him a look that is hard to process, and just like that, he's gone. 

 

The urge to lose himself to the madness increases, but he can’t because that would only compromise his case. Maka is long gone. A second later the crystal stem finally succumbs to the pressure.  _ Fuck! _

  
  


“You wanna talk about it?” Benji hip checks her bringing Maka back to the present where she is still fuming. Trying to wrap her head around everything that has happened in the past few minutes and she’s still failing, miserably. 

 

Maka groans, “No. Not really.”

 

Benjamin picks at his cuticles for a minute. “Wanna leave?” he offers, bored with the social proceedings now that he’s finished his fifth plate of shrimp. 

 

Her jaw clenches as she shakes her head, perversely this time-- it’s not as if she hasn’t done her duty. She could’ve been long gone, hailed an Uber, or even walked given she’s on base and the ship is fifteen minutes away at max. But, no-- her stubbornness dictates that she stays. 

 

Besides... she  _ wants _ to. 

 

At least here she can observe Soul seething. Her teeth grind together, oh, he’s seething alright beneath the smooth mask of apathy he’s donned to reprise his movie star role-- she sees it in the tension of his shoulders. But his stormy red eyes are directed at Benji, not her. 

 

Well, at least she knows how to pick her best friends. A small part of her wonders if she would have ever developed feelings for Starinsky, like she has for Soul. He’s been there for her through so many ups and downs. So Maka side eyes her long time friend discreetly. He is objectively hot, sandy blonde hair, toned body, those intense blue eyes-- Star belches and wafts it with his hand-- he’s loud though, Maka looks away. Not to mention gayer than her Uncle Stein’s Christmas fruitcake. She sighs, there's also the fact that...

 

“He does look sort of intense when he’s smoldering like that,” Star says neutrally, but Maka will neither confirm nor deny that statement. “Nothing on Griffin, though.” He gives her a wicked grin.

 

...He’s happily taken. Griffin being Star’s long time boyfriend who prefers to be called Kid by everyone who isn’t Benji. 

 

“Alright, Maks, you don’t want to be here. You don’t want to leave. You don’t want to talk about it. What  _ do _ you want?” he asks, going straight for the nuts of the matter. 

 

“I wish I knew,” she says, through gritted teeth, her anxious fingers push her hair over her shoulders. 

 

With a scoff that makes Maka’s skin prickle, Star rolls his eyes at her. “I’ll let you mull that over. I’m gonna grab some more cham-pag-nae, ‘cause you know the toasts and roasts are about to start.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t start kicking ass without me,” he says, fully confident in her ability to protect herself. “Want one? Two?” His face dips with a goofy grin and Maka pouts trying to hang onto the heat of her anger.

 

She holds up two fingers.

 

“You got it, babe,” he says, waving finger guns at her.

 

He’s so stupid sometimes, but he knows she doesn’t need him to treat her like some fragile flower. She’s pissed and she’s never been good at dealing with her stubbornness head on. 

 

The sound of the surf outside bleeds through the window and draws her gaze. Papa’s always told her she’s emotional first and asks questions later. It’s just that she feels so  _ stupid, _ so vulnerable-- she’d trusted  _ him. _ No-- she'd been ignorant to think he reciprocated that trust, which only leaves her feeling utterly played. 

 

Soul’s feelings about the Navy cut her deeply. Did he seriously think it wouldn’t matter to her? She loves what she does, sure, but she’s not-- And the things he’s said about his father-- and his  _ business. _ It kills her, she gets the fact that he’s got a lousy father-- but it isn’t the Navy’s fault. Maka palms her face. The Navy doesn’t make bad fathers, she should know, flawed humans do. Unless Soul truly believes his father would have been a model of suburban patriarchy if he’d only been in a different profession… he can't be that naive. Can he?

 

A chill goes through her. Maybe that  _ is  _ the problem. Her heart wrenches, if Soul’s pain runs so deep that he does believe that to be the case-- where does that leave her? Swimming with the fishes. 

 

The breath she’s holding escapes slowly, drawn out and dejected, sinking all the way to her toes.  _ Goddamnit. _

 

“Can we talk about it?” The voice rumbles through her chest.  _ Soul! _

 

“No.” They can’t-- damn her-- she knew better. All along, she’d known his detail was scheduled for six weeks and then he’d be gone. Right now she doesn’t have it in her to deal with someone else she’s grown to care about leaving her, she isn’t strong enough.

 

Six weeks shouldn’t have been long enough to wreak havoc on her heart, and yet--

 

She feels his heavy sigh tease her hair when she refuses to turn around. “Not here…” Her jaw clenches. “Not now…” His tone cuts her. “Or not to me?” He’s in pain. 

 

But, so is she-- “All of the above.” 

 

“Maka, please--”

 

“Well, I’ll be fucked. Holy shit, Eater, you  _ fucking _ did it!”

 

Her body goes tense, but she doesn’t need to turn around to confirm that Soul has also gone rigid-- she can feel it. 

 

“Leave, Bale,” he says, and the switch in the timbre of his voice, concerned or possibly contrite that flips automatically to commanding agent, makes her shiver. 

 

“Woah, chill-- you provided proof-- I’m man enough to pay up when I lose,” says the Lieutenant. 

 

The oil in Noah’s voice makes her sick. Bale a man? That’s an oxymoron. It’s enough to make her snort as she turns around. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you call yourself a man,” Maka says, glad to have someone to vent her frustration on. “What do you want Noah, the captain’s about to start.” 

 

“ _ Elsa  _ speaks,” he says, drawing back in mock surprise. 

 

“Someone knows their Disney princesses-- spill it or do as he says--” She jerks her head in Soul’s direction “--leave.” 

 

Bale sneers down his nose at her before he turns to Soul with a wicked grin, indifferent to her presence. “You really are a masochist, man. I don’t think the hair takes the edge off her  _ sweet _ disposition. I’ll drop off the hundred on Monday.”

 

“Do it, and I’ll shove it up your ass--”

 

“ _ Come again?”  _ The sound has gone out of the room leaving a ringing in her head. Maka’s eyes flit between the pair of them before they narrow on Soul. “Tell me you did  _ not  _ bet on me with  _ him?” _

 

Bale’s face turns into a sanguine smile, that splits his face wide. “Oh, ho, shit-- that’s  _ my  _ cue.”

 

Maka crucifies Soul with her stare. “ _ Well _ ?” She gives him all of two seconds to answer before she spins around and strides away. 

  
  


Soul can’t even reach out for her as she stalks away, he’d never disrespect her like that. He wants to rage as his hands dig into his hair, he’s torn between following Maka and the desire to hunt Bale down with a scythe-- a well honed one. 

 

Caught between fight or flight, Soul is at an impasse. And then Maka’s Captain, true to his impeccable, shit timing, picks this particular moment to hail him into the convention room. Soul freezes-- a wave of nauseating stage fright that sends him back to his childhood nightmare of anxiety inducing piano recitals in front of numerous strangers-- as some hundred fifty odd pairs of eyes turn to stare at him. God today can just suck his nuts already.

 

It’s a living nightmare-- he doesn’t know what the Captain said, so he has no idea how to respond. The seconds tick away in a growing bubble of awkward silence that threatens to keep going until someone finally, mercifully, steps up to the microphone--  _ Starinsky _ .

 

“Stop it Capt’n, you’re making Eater blush with all those compliments. I’m sure he’ll return the favor when he fills in dear ol’ dad--  _ Admiral Evans--  _ on the best repair ship in the fleet!  _ HOORAH! _ ” The man is so loud, the feedback electronically sonar echoes all around the room for several moments.

 

Soul's blood sugar drops as the sound bounces, the wave of echoes getting smaller, had he overheard?  _ Fuck- _ \- then is he the one?!

 

For a split second Soul thinks, he's cursed out loud. Except that can’t be the case, if it were everyone would be staring at him, but they’re not, they’re staring at Starinsky. Slowly, the heads turn back in his direction, stunned. In fact, he’s the only who isn’t surprised and that’s because he’s  _ fucking livid.  _

 

He can taste blood in his mouth where he’s attempting to divert his rage. Fuck the critics who blasted him, he’s winning an Oscar tonight. His face splits into a slow smile that might even feel real, although it’s far from it. That’s when his cell phone goes off.

 

Soul digs it out of his dinner jacket. “Must be his agent!” someone in the crowd yells.

 

His mouth slinks into a grin as he looks down-- and then it turns genuine-- it’s a message from Kilik. A coded message that indicates, his partner is onto something. Something big.

 

“Sure is. Sorry everyone I’ve been waiting to get news on this role, if you’ll excuse me.” Soul makes a beeline to the lobby as he hits Kilik’s speed dial.

 

When the line picks up, he says, “Hey man-- what do you have?”

 

“ _ Compadre-- _ Your lady came in on the mark!” Kilik says, in a mixture of spanglish, hyped. 

 

Soul’s grip on his cell is vice like. “How so? There are ears everywhere.”

 

“Gotcha--  _ claro que si _ ,” his partner says. “So one of the ships on the list did run her reactor out of specs, just like your girl Maka suspected.” Soul lets out a low whistle. “It gets better,  _ cabron. _ I got the list of personnel off the cruiser and did a cross check against your home boys.” Here Kilik pauses dramatically.

 

“And?” Soul wills with every fiber of his being, _ Let the fucker be on the list.  _

 

“Seems Bale ran around with two of the guys off the cruiser in his childhood-- one of which works in the reactor. We ran the partial you lifted off the key and got a match-- Bale.” 

 

_ Fuck yeah! _ “Warrant?” 

 

“Already on it--” Kilik’s chuckle turns serious “--As soon as the Judge signs it, I’ll send the electronic version.” 

 

“I love you, man,” Soul says, as the relief floods him. “Anything else?”

 

This time his chuckle is knowing. “Yeah,  _ chingon, _ when do I get to meet her?”  

 

“Soon.” It’s a promise, Soul ends the call and pockets his phone.

 

“So what, you leaving now, Eater? Or should I say,  _ Evans _ ?” 

 

Soul spins around coming face to face with Starinsky. “Where’s Maka?” He manages to keep his fists in check.

 

Benjamin injects a special sort of arrogant indifference into his shrug. “Sorry bruh, can’t help you. I’m her  _ friend  _ not her keeper.”

 

Soul's a camel with a sore back, so fuck this piece of straw. 

 

He takes two steps forward and slams Starinsky into the wall, before the guy knows what’s happening. Now he’s two centimeters away, glaring into shocked blue as he grinds out his request one more time.  _ “Where is she?” _

  
  


  
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Um...I’mma 'splain these in my lexicon...I’ll probably add the “correct” translation as well. 
> 
> Compadre: bruh-- informal way of addressing a good friend-- godfather
> 
> Claro que si: of course 
> 
> Cabron: dumbass -- or it has a variety of other meanings but I use it this way.
> 
> Chingón: someone that is cool, awesome and very good. Well basically… Soul.


End file.
